Lost Cause
by AdmiralCats
Summary: (Bad Company: Book 12) After being cleared for full duty, Drake is immediately thrust into a mission that seems to press all his buttons and put the knowledge he's gained over the last month to a single, intense test. The long absence from action has done no good, and fear of failure continues to rear its increasingly ugly head as Drake struggles to prove his worth as a Marine.
1. Chapter 1

Last night was the first time that I didn't have being unable to breathe as the focal point of my nightmares. It started off rather calmly; I was walking in a suburb, along a street lined with trees. The street was neat and trim, a peaceful place where people clearly lived happy lives. I was feeling immensely empty, as always. A squirrel ran past me, but not in its usual carefree run-it looked panicked. I looked ahead to see something perched on top of a trash can, and it wasn't a raccoon or stray cat.

It was Hicks. He was completely overtaken by the Annexer hormones in his medication. He was hunched, like an animal waiting to pounce. His hands were curled tightly, and bloody claws were extended from them. White foam dripped from his mouth, and his teeth seemed to be filed into razor-sharp fangs. He hissed at me, and I started backing away slowly. Suddenly, he leaped, tackling me to the ground and digging his nails into the base of my neck. The foam was falling on me, creating disgusting patches of warm wetness all over my neck and face. Hicks's lips were pulled into a horrible smile. The fangs glistened with silver saliva. His eyes were narrowed into slits, and they seemed to glow with rootless rage. A low growl was coming deep in his throat. The fangs parted slightly, and he lowered his head. More spit was running from his mouth as he sniffed the area where my head ends and my neck begins. Was he looking for a good spot to bite?

My heart was pounding hard. "Are you gonna do something or not?" I asked.

Hicks didn't answer. He lifted his head slightly, still tilted downward at me, prompting more saliva to drip down his chin. I could smell a horrible infection on his breath. It was coming from deep in his chest; I could hear the gurgling and popping of mucus. Anxiously, I continued to stare up at him, wondering if he'd recognize me and leave me alone.

That didn't happen; the dream ended after Hicks turned his head to bite down on my neck. Blood spurted around his teeth as they sank into my skin, and I watched him eat my throat out.

* * *

When I woke up from that awful dream, I immediately touched my neck. It was still intact. Sighing, I got out of bed, and grabbed a pair of shorts and a T-shirt hanging off the top of my dresser. It must've been early, as I heard nothing out in the hallway. Peering out the door, I could hear the gentle hum of the generators that keep the base operational.

Out of curiosity, I left my room, and headed down the hall to Hicks's. The door was unlocked all the time now, so the doctors could go in and out quickly if something went wrong. Sure enough, Hicks was still lying in bed, appearing lifeless.

He's been like that for a few days.

He expelled a lot of energy after getting mad at everyone for fighting (naturally, the reason everyone was fighting was me), and he returned to his room, only to never emerge. For several hours, every Marine on base feared he'd died, but a doctor came out and announced Hicks was simply in a very deep sleep. His sickness, combined with the medicine he's taking to expel the remnants of the silver flower poison, rendered him very weak, a skinny shadow of his usual leading persona. Hudson and I were both poisoned as well, but we didn't catch a cold or the flu or whatever-this-is afterwards, not to mention Hicks's exposure to the flower wasn't as extreme as ours.

The point is that it didn't take much to completely knock him out, and I feel like it may partly have to do with the fact that he's been working hard and doesn't put in a lot of time for rest. He's a lifer, he cares about his duties as the squad corporal. He's not bent on going home like some of us.

After observing Hicks's even, clockwork-like breathing, I left the doorway, and looked over my shoulder to see everyone else had left the comfort of their beds. Hudson had his hand up his shirt and scratching his chest while yawning. He glanced at me, saying, "'Morning, Drake. Why're you up so early?"

I shrugged. "Just checking on Hicks." After everyone else headed to the mess hall, I walked up to Hudson, whispering, "I had a nightmare last night. Hicks attacked me, and just hovered over me before eating my neck."

Hudson thought about that for a minute. His gray eyes were still a little bleary with sleep, but he could still comprehend everything I was saying to him. "OK."

"He went nuts. Like you did when you were on Hornby's prototype pills."

"OK. I didn't try to eat anyone, though."

"I know, and that's a good thing."

"Hey, it was a shitty dream, man. Hornby gave Hicks a pill with a low hormone dose, right? He's not gonna attack anyone."

"We don't know that. He hasn't been active enough for that hormone to become stimulated. What if it's . . . building up inside of him, and anything that makes a sound or touches him will make him insanely violent?"

Hudson shook his head. "I don't think so, man. You're spending too much time in your head again."

* * *

My mind was stuck on that nightmare. I wanted to know what it meant, or if it was just a stupid conglomeration of random thoughts and fears. I was so focused on it that I didn't notice a man with a heavy Irish accent and a stark-white lab coat entering the mess hall and saying, "Private Drake, when you're finished, can you come down to sick bay?"

I swallowed a piece of food in my mouth nervously. It slowly slid into my stomach, which was knotting tightly, not wanting to perform its normal function at the moment. "What for?" I asked, not wanting to be left in the dark.

"Routine exam. Find out if you're clear of the silver flower poison." The doctor left without another word.

I felt Vasquez touch my knee under the table, and Hudson looked at me. "Gonna see if you're fit for full duty, man. I got, what, two weeks before they do me."

I shook my head. "I don't think I'll pass."

"That's bullshit, man. You're healthy. It's been more than a month."

"I may be physically healthy, but-"

"They don't give a rat's ass 'bout your mental health, Drake. It's sad, but, hey, you won't get kicked out today, OK, man?" Hudson took a bite of his bread, giving me a reassuring smile as he chewed.

Over the last few weeks, I've come to trust Hudson with many of my personal problems. I don't understand how he handles keeping all this a secret, but he's somehow managed it. He even knows about my relationship with Vasquez. That was definitely something I didn't want him knowing about, but I felt like he had to know in order to build a better bond between the two of us. Since then, he's become a little defensive of both me and Vasquez-he tries to stand up for us whenever he can. It can be a little annoying, but I've also really never had someone try to defend me before, so I also welcome it. Somewhat.

I was slow with my breakfast, but I tried to be reasonable with my time, especially since Apone was giving me dirty looks. After finishing, I gave my tray to Bishop, and headed to sick bay, my heart still pounding.

The Irish doctor was sitting at a small desk, which was covered in empty tubes, alongside a cup. I gave a silent sigh when I saw the cup, because I knew I'd have to piss in it. The doctor glanced at me, and gestured for me to sit. "Private Drake, how have you been feeling since your last treatment for the effects of silver flower poisoning?"

My last treatment was a large injection after I developed toxic discharge. "Well . . . I've been feeling OK."

"Any silver coloration in your bodily fluids, including blood, saliva, urine, or sweat over the past three weeks?"

"No, sir."

"Have you felt nauseated and have you vomited in the last three weeks?"

"Yes, sir."

The doctor picked up a pen and clipboard. "Describe the incident."

"The day Hicks discovered the rotten flower in his bag. I . . . I was overwhelmed, and I guess my stomach couldn't handle it."

"Ah. Natural reaction." The doctor crossed something out on the clipboard. "How have your bowel movements been in the last three weeks?"

"I shit at least once a day."

"Are they soft or discolored?"

"No, sir."

"Have you had incidents of unexplainable chest pain?"

"No, sir."

"Have you experienced hallucinations?"

"No, sir."

"Dizziness or fainting for reasons you don't believe are related to stress, dehydration, or lack of nutrients?"

"No, sir."

"Any concerns regarding your mental health?"

The knot returned in my stomach. I swallowed past a lump in my throat. _Should I lie? I don't trust this guy. I should lie._ "No, sir." The lump became painful, and I suddenly had an urge to cry. Here was a chance to present my fears to a professional, but I just didn't feel ready. I knew I was beyond ready, but I didn't trust this doctor, and I was terrified that I could be kicked out of the Colonial Marines.

The doctor nodded. He wasn't making eye contact with me, which meant he wasn't observing the roiling emotions beneath my surface. "Remove your clothing down to your underpants."

I frowned. "You're not checking my-"

"No. Not today. Just get undressed."

I shrugged. "Alright." I hate it when they check your private parts, so, thank God I wasn't getting _that_ checked today. Maybe I could trust this doctor.

He had me stand on a scale to check my weight. His eyebrows furrowed as he glanced between the scale and a document containing my weight records over several months. "You've dropped again. Not by much."

"Is that bad?"

"No. Not necessarily. You're still within a healthy range for your height and age. If you drop another, say, ten-to-twenty pounds, then we need to start implementing some changes to your diet and exercise routines. Step off the scale." The doctor made me sit in another chair. He looked in my eyes and ears, muttering, "Good. Nice and clear. Open your mouth." He shone a penlight into the back of my throat. "Marvelous. No redness or swelling. No dental issues, I see." He then had me lay down on a bed covered with thin paper, and touched my chest. "No pain when I touch you?"

"I don't like that feeling, but it's not painful."

"Good." He gently pressed my belly. "No pain?"

"No, sir."

"Wonderful. Sit up." The doctor put on his stethoscope, and listened to my heart and lungs. "Beautiful." He rolled up my left sleeve, and took my blood pressure. "Are you nervous?" he asked.

"A little. Why?"

"Your pressure's slightly elevated. Nothing of concern." He took the band off. "Alright. You're going to drink a whole glass of water, and present me with a urine sample. After that, I'm going to take two vials of blood."

"OK. Can I put my clothes back on?"

"Not yet." The doctor handed me a glass of water from his sink. He watched me drink the entire glass, and, for some reason, that made me uncomfortable. Not to mention, I can't piss on command, so, I was probably going to be there for awhile.

Not exactly. The doctor made me pace to room to keep my systems moving, and I did think that I actually made myself have to go. But, when I got in the restroom and held out the cup, I got nothing. Sighing irritably, I set the cup on top of the urinal, pulled up my underwear, and began pacing the length of the bathroom. It was quiet, aside from the obnoxiously loud exhaust fans in the ceiling. They sounded like they should've been replaced two years ago, and they sure as hell weren't cleaning the room; dust was everywhere. I get that the med bay bathrooms aren't used that often, but, still, some degree of care should be put into it.

I tried to go in the cup again. It wasn't much, but it was something. I screwed on the cap, and brought it out to the doctor, who performed a quick test on the sample to make sure everything was A-OK. After that, he gave me some more water, and had me sit so he could take blood. One vial was strictly to check for the poison. The other was just a general test to make sure nothing else was wrong.

The final verdict? I'm healthy. If we get called for space travel, it's perfectly safe for me to go into hypersleep.

However, I was going to find out that our next mission was purely Earthbound.

* * *

I checked on Hicks again shortly before lunch. He was still fast asleep, breathing evenly. I saw all the fancy and terrifying equipment the doctors were using to make sure he got all his daily nutrients, as well as his pill. They use a small tube to force the pill down his throat, after making sure all the muscles in the back of his throat are relaxed. It's a scary thing to think about, someone shoving a long tube down your throat. The pill is inserted to one end, and "fired" in with the press of a button.

I know all this is to keep Hicks alive, but how long is it going to be this way? Why did it have to happen?

"Hey, man, Sarge wants us in the briefing room."

I turned to see Hudson standing beside me, leaning against the wall with one arm folded across his chest and the other being used to twirl his dogtags around his fingers.

People read their friends a lot differently than they read strangers. We're more cautious with strangers. We don't know if they're someone who wants to hurt us. With friends, all guards are down and you are free to read each other like a book. Hudson's relaxed pose told me something; he had been cautious with me. Even after we started to trust each other. I've never really seen this before. Sure, he'll have bad table manners and sling insults and ask me questions about my sex life with Vasquez, but there was always a certain . . . rigidness whenever he approached me for simple or professional things. That rigidness was gone, but I feel like there's something more than just getting more comfortable with me.

I pondered that as I followed him to the briefing room. Friendship has levels and layers. Everyone seems to think that a friendship between two guys has less depth than that between two girls. One thing high school taught me is that while there are girl friendships that last a lifetime, they're also easily shattered, most often by "trouble" with boyfriends. One argument will decimate a friendship that has lasted since, say, kindergarten. Drama creates fragility. With guys, we take brotherhood seriously. We don't let stupid shit get in the way. We don't gossip, and we generally don't have massive groups of followers who serve no other purpose than to talk crap about one person.

Hudson and I are both adults. We've both seen a lot of shit that the majority of people won't see, and shouldn't see. We've had events in our lives that shape our ways of thinking, and while our outlooks are different, the phrase "opposites attract" can apply. To some degree. I think he wanted to trust me more than I wanted to trust him, and that says a lot.

Why would someone who's carefree want to trust someone who's reserved and depressed?

I don't want to assume something is bothering Hudson, but it's not an idea that I'm going to toss out the window. We've been cooped up on base for around two weeks, and Hudson recently got a taste of freedom while accompanying me and Vasquez to Washington, D.C. I think that taste of freedom sank into him, and he wants more, especially since he's been out of commission after being poisoned. I can't imagine the sudden outbursts of violence-animalistic aggression-that were a side effect of his medication did him good. I heard the word "werewolf" be tossed around by some of the squad members, and, frankly, it wasn't a bad description. He would become something he's not, something you wouldn't recognize. He was your friend one minute, the next he'd be tackling you to the ground simply because you snapped your bubble gum too loudly or your laughter is too shrill.

Doctor Hornby promised to remove that aspect when making a new pill for Hicks, and he does feel guilty for what happened to Hudson. At least the violent outbursts don't have any long-lasting _physical_ effects.

I snapped out of my thoughts after sitting down in the briefing room. Apone was talking about "some nuts off the coast of Sumatra, Indonesia, getting their hands on Weyland-Yutani fighter jets." I realized pretty quickly that this was going to be a simple hit-and-run operation; we just have to exterminate the nuts, secure the jets, and run back off to Australia.

The only thing that surprised me was that Hudson would be coming along. I guess since he was good with the task in D.C., he'd be clear for anything that didn't involve space travel.

It sounded so simple. What the fuck could go wrong?

* * *

 _Question: Do you think Hicks might be "faking" his condition in order to make Drake learn emotional control on his own?_

 _Author's Note: I know I was originally supposed to return in November, but things didn't go all that well for me. To make a long story short, I was unable to continue my training in the Navy. Despite my short stay, I learned a lot, and my experience is something that will certainly start to bleed into my writing. If the beginning of this story seems off or it doesn't feel like Drake's voice, I apologize. Please let me know-constructively-so I can make the appropriate edits.  
_

 _I'm just glad to be writing again. I've missed it, and I've missed reading your feedback. I'm glad my short story from Vasquez's point-of-view didn't flop. It was fun to do, and I might do another one. As of now, I want to get back into the swing of things here, get myself back onto a regular writing schedule so you can keep reading. If it takes some time, I again apologize. Happy reading, - Cat_


	2. Chapter 2

Doctor Delhoun placed a steaming cup of hot chocolate in front of me before sitting across from me at the small table in the center of his disorganized kitchen. I had just told him everything that had happened over the last several hours, including me being cleared for duty, and the upcoming mission. He listened while patting the head of his faithful Annexer companion, Winnie, who was cooing contentedly on his lap.

I also told him about the nightmare I had where Hicks had lost his marbles and tore out my throat. To my surprise, Delhoun smiled. "Why the fuck is that funny to you?" I asked, baffled.

"Because it is! No, really, Drake, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have laughed, but, I did." He wiped a tear from his ruby eyes. "Anyway . . . look, those kinds of dreams simply mean you're thinking too much about something, not to mention, your brain-and everyone else's, for that matter-likes to take everything it's observed and throw it together in a soup."

"Huh. I always compared it to oatmeal."

"Oatmeal. Soup. No one gives a crap. And the brain has no recipe. It just says, 'Fuck it,' and puts it all together. Sometimes, you get pleasant dreams, and sometimes you have . . . whatever the bloody hell you just experienced." Delhoun adjusted his posture, prompting Winnie to disappear under the table. "I wouldn't worry about it, Drake. Hornby made sure that the medication Hicks is on will not result in some kind of violent attack. Hell, even Hudson's outbursts weren't like what you described."

"No, but they could have been."

Delhoun shook his head. "Think. Don't hold grudges. Don't let your past experiences dictate how you feel."

"That's kind of impossible. I don't understand why you, of all people, would say that. You've had your work sidelined for years-"

"But am I still working for Weyland-Yutani? Yes. They may not make my work a top priority, but they still pay me handsomely. I don't want to give that up. It's how I make sure every Annexer has food, water, a clean kennel, medicine, toys, you name it. It's how I keep living. I need to eat, too, you know."

"Didn't you tell me you were getting bored with your work?"

"I was. However, an opportunity came up that I couldn't refuse." Delhoun handed me a small pamphlet. " _National Geographic_ is writing an article about domesticated Annexers. They want to have me be on the cover with Winnie."

"That reinvigorated you?"

"Yes." Delhoun pointed to himself. "Me. On the front cover of one of the longest-lasting and most esteemed magazines in the world. Can you imagine?" He grinned, childlike excitement crossing over his face.

"Send me a copy, then," I mumbled, taking a sip of my hot chocolate. My mind went back to shortly before the mission briefing, when Hudson approached me in a relaxed manner. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

I explained to him how even though Hudson and I had grown to trust each other, there was still an air of caution. But, today, that was broken by Hudson without warning. What did it mean?

Delhoun shrugged. "He trusts you better. You think there's a deeper meaning to his body language that you don't understand?"

"Kinda. Yeah. I thought that I understood Hudson and had really gotten to know him, but I feel like there's another layer I haven't pulled back, and I don't know if I should."

"First, I want you to show me what this 'relaxed stance' was."

Standing up, I took off my dogtags, and walked over to a wall to lean against it, one arm over my chest, the other spinning the chain.

Delhoun studied me for a few minutes, then leaned back in his chair. "You're not gonna like my answer, Drake."

"Why not?"

"Because it's very simple and has no complex meaning whatsoever. Hudson is just more comfortable with you, because you clearly haven't done anything to fuck up your friendship."

I dropped the pose. "You were right. I don't like your answer."

Delhoun laughed. "I know you very well."

"Maybe _too_ well."

* * *

I returned to base, unsure of how to feel about Delhoun's response. On one hand, I've trusted him for the last two months. He's proven time and time again that he cares about me and wants me to succeed, and recover. He's guarding several secrets that I don't want anyone in the USCM to know about. On the other hand, he tends to look at many situations with a degree of lightheartedness. Instead of panicking, he smiles. He can be devious, and he sometimes brushes things off, telling me a phrase that, based on my experience, is losing its meaning: "You need to learn on your own."

I understand that I'm not going to succeed, or be more independent, if I can't figure things out on my own, but I've also learned that sometimes, I really need help. Sometimes, I just can't do anything by myself.

In boot camp, I was only shown how to do things one time. You did not ask for help unless you wanted to be labeled as retarded by your instructor. I made that mistake early on, as did several others. You didn't want these . . . people to remember your name. You wanted to be faceless, just another cadet. I didn't get that luxury. Eventually, every instructor knew who I was, and the basics of my background. They berated me for not completing high school, constantly told me I was stupid because I went to jail, repeatedly informed me that I shouldn't be getting any second chances. If everyone else was writing letters home, the instructors would remind me that I'm homeless, that I don't have a family, that my family probably doesn't even love me anymore, that I'm stuck here.

As I read through one of my previous journals, I saw I had written that I didn't want to describe graduation. My earlier talk with Delhoun and how he kinda-sorta tossed aside my problem made me reconsider.

Your drill instructors lighten up on you for graduation, unless you fuck up. The morning of graduation, as we put on our dress uniforms, my bunkmate said to me, "I've been a religious man all my life. I know God wants me to forgive and love my enemies, but . . . somehow, I can't forgive any of our instructors for these last few weeks. It pains me to say that."

"It's graduation," I replied. "They're letting us go. We're not gonna see them ever again."

"Fuck if I know."

I guess the funny part of it all is that I can't, for the life of me, remember my bunkmate's name. It was a Polish name of sorts. All I remember is that he had a heart of gold and tried to keep the division from falling apart, emotionally. He could recognize if someone was simply feeling down, or wanting to kill themselves. I remember he tried to take me under his wing, but with so little time to ourselves, we could never have a conversation like two normal human beings.

Thinking about it, I wish I could remember his name so I could get in contact with him.

The actual ceremony was fine, but, afterward, while everyone else was reuniting with their families, I simply stood in the middle of the hall, glancing around, feeling an immense pain swallowing up my heart. I could see Vasquez at the other end of the hall, also standing. There were two many people around for us to go to each other, and she was the only person I could find comfort in.

I stood too long. One of my instructors stalked up to me, and could read my face clear as day. The stoic mask I had been wearing came off-no, it shattered. It was like a raw wound, and the stern-looking woman was going to pour salt all over it.

"That's right. You're the shit who came here because people suddenly think we should start giving get-outta-jail-free cards out. W-Are you crying?" She grabbed the collar of my uniform. " _Are you fucking crying?! Answer me, you tumor!_ "

I think you can imagine what happened after I refused to say anything. Staying silent is worse than saying something stupid. If you stay silent, that means you're selfish and have no integrity, for some reason.

After being told that I am lower than both dirt and a coward, I was let go. Off to smartgun training.

* * *

I had to put my journal down. It's late at night, now, and I can't sleep. Rereading through my last entry, I can see that I'm being bitter about Delhoun. In a way, I almost _compared_ him to my drill instructors.

I shouldn't have. Delhoun has put far too much effort into me to warrant that.

Closing my journal again, I went into the bathroom, struggling to get a grip on my thoughts. I needed to get out of the past. I needed to focus on here and now. The problem is that the past keeps following me. It won't leave me alone.

After staring at myself in the mirror, I sighed and went back out to bed. I managed to drift off to sleep, but my sleep wasn't peaceful.

In my nightmare, I was walking through a seemingly abandoned building. A ceiling panel was out, and I looked up when something dripped down, landing right in front of me. Once again, I was faced with Hicks-who-wasn't-Hicks. He peered down from the ceiling, eyes glowing with rage. He didn't simply drop down. No, he _crawled_ out of the ceiling, down the wall, leaving bloody handprints. The abnormal claws left chips in the paint. The stink of infection was horrendously strong. Again, his lips were pulled in a hideous, inhuman grin, baring the sharpened teeth.

I backed away. This section of the hallway was lit, but the sections in front and behind me were dark. Hicks followed me, slowly. As he took in my scent, saliva began dripping from the edges of his mouth. Realizing he was probably looking to eat my throat out again, I bolted, but as soon as I disappeared into the darker parts of the hallway, I began choking. Collapsing, I grabbed at my neck, struggling to get a breath in. I managed a scream, but no one but the hormone-possessed Hicks could hear me.

I lingered for awhile. Tears rolled down my face. My chest was tightening. I put my hand in my mouth, trying to find and remove whatever was choking me. When I couldn't find anything, I screamed again. I cried. I begged for help.

Hicks watched, then crawled over to me. He hovered over my face, as if he was waiting for me to die.

I jolted awake. Out in the hallway, Apone was walking around and waking everyone up. As he knocked on my door, I covered my face, sobbing hard.

* * *

"Drake, we're leaving today, man. You gotta eat something." Hudson took notice of the fact that I was just staring at my food, and then snapped his fingers in front of me. "Are you in there?"

"Don't do that," I muttered. "I'm not hungry."

"What's bugging you, man?"

I rubbed my face. "I . . . had another nightmare last night."

"And?"

"And . . . And . . . I feel like I'm getting sucked deeper and deeper into my past."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I . . . Yesterday, when you told me that we had to go to briefing, you were . . . you were very relaxed, and I guess I dwelled on that a little too hard. You know, you never approach me like that. I just . . . I . . . Why?"

Hudson shrugged. "What? I can't be goofy around you?" He took off his dogtags and started twirling them. "Does this bother you?"

"No. Just . . . you were . . . Just, never mind."

"No, really, man, what's bothering you?"

Something snapped. " _Dammit, Hudson, I told you what's bothering me! You should KNOW what's bothering me if you think we're friends or something! I've spilled my fucking guts to you! I'm tired of it! Why don't you tell ME all that's bothering YOU right now?!_ "

Hudson was visibly stunned over my sudden explosion. He looked at me, then glanced at everyone else at the table. He definitely had no idea why I was yelling at him. _I_ didn't know why I was yelling at him.

The smoke in my head began to clear. My fists were still clenched, and I took a breath. "Hudson-"

"Drake, shut up." The confusion morphed into annoyance, tinged with anger. "I don't know what's gotten into you, man, but you're taking every little thing that everyone does and you're turning it into a big deal. Why? I don't fucking know. You have cabin fever? Your stupid nightmares? Jesus, Drake, you need to go get yourself a hobby. Go into Hicks's room and steal some of his cigarettes, I dunno. Do something. You're spending way too much time in your own little world."

"How else am I supposed to understand what's going on?"

"Dude, you're becoming _obsessed_ with it. You're not helping yourself, and you're not helping anyone else, so, just . . . drop it for a few days. Maybe going into combat will help clear your head."

I couldn't bring myself to speak. I realized everyone at the table was watching us, and listening to every word. Embarrassment flooded over me, and I promptly left the mess hall.

* * *

I didn't have a lot of time to sit and sulk. Shortly after two in the afternoon, we were herded onto a military plane dropping us off at this remote island where the terrorists had taken control of the Weyland-Yutani fighter jets.

The flight was going to be a little over five hours, and I quickly realized my head was not in the game. That wasn't good; if I wasn't focused, someone could get killed. That someone could be me, or one of my teammates. I sat near the back of the craft, glancing at my smartgun, propped up next to Vasquez's in a weapons rack. Just as I thought I was alone, a door slid open. Vasquez walked in, and closed the door behind her. She sat next to me, and sighed, "Well?"

"Well what?" I asked.

"Well? What's going on with you? Why'd you yell at Hudson when he's been nothing but nice to you?"

"I got frustrated, OK?"

"It sounded like you completely lost control of everything inside your head."

"I guess I did."

"Drake, stop dodging my question. What set you off? You always have a reason, stupid or not."

I looked at her. "Alright. Tell me, sweetheart . . . how do you know when your friend has complete trust in you?"

"When they tell me things they normally wouldn't tell others."

"What's their body language like?"

"Generally relaxed. They trust me, so I'd imagine that they would show it both verbally and nonverbally."

"I feel like Hudson's been hiding things from me, even though I opened up a long time ago."

"Well, Drake, life isn't fair. Do you think _we'd_ be here if life was fucking fair? Accept that Hudson might have things he's not sure he wants to talk to you about. Maybe, if you were _nicer_ to him, he'd talk to you. Today, you treated him like shit." Vasquez leaned in closer to my face. "You don't like it when other people treat your sorry ass like shit."

I kissed her. "No, I don't."

The conversation ended there. Vasquez ran her fingers through my hair, and kissed my forehead before nuzzling my face. I pulled her close to me, my heart racing. It took a moment to realize neither of us were smiling. "What's the matter?" I whispered.

"Nothing," Vasquez replied.

"Is my perpetual sadness radiating onto you?"

"No. I'm just . . . hoping you don't fuck this mission up."

"I won't. I promise." I gently bumped my forehead against hers. "I'll be OK."

Now a weak smile crossed over her face. "I want so badly to believe you."

"Then do it. Believe me. Come on, you trust me, right?"

Vasquez nodded.

"Have I ever given you any reason not to trust me?"

"No, but-"

"Then trust me. I'm not gonna fuck this up." I hugged her tightly.

"If you say so, Drake."

* * *

We landed under the cover of darkness on the farthest east side of the island. Apone wasn't kidding when he said the island was predominated by cliffs. The complex holding the fighter jets was inside one of the cliffs, but it shouldn't be that hard to find. The hard part was making sure we weren't running into an ambush of any kind. God only knows if the terrorists found out we were here.

It was nice to be holding my smartgun again. It was nice to actually be part of the team again. We were still lacking Hicks, and I feared that was going to hinder our progress.

"Why don't we just bomb out the complex, man?" Hudson asked.

"Do you want to pay for rebuilding it?" Apone turned around to face Hudson. "I said this to you at the briefing. Those Goddamn jets have to be intact."

"At least _one_ has to be left intact so the USCM is capable of building more," I replied, "but the blueprints are probably more important."

"Don't assume you know anything, Drake," Dietrich said. "You haven't seen action in-"

"Knock it off," Apone interrupted.

Despite that, I looked over my shoulder to spit, "Bite me," to Dietrich, and Vasquez nudged me forward with her weapon.

I can't go into too much detail about where the complex was on the island. After entering, we were split into teams, and I found myself becoming anxious as Vasquez walked away with Frost. I was stuck with Hudson.

So far, there weren't many signs of life inside the massive complex. There were hallways eerily reminisce of my dream from last night. I half-expected a rabid Hicks to drop down at any moment. Hudson slowly opened doors, pointing the muzzle of his pulse rifle inside. Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing. Where the fuck were these guys?

"Probably means they know we're here and're planning an ambush," Hudson mumbled, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.

"Or they abandoned the place," I replied.

"That too, but we gotta-" Hudson's hand flew to his helmet mike after hearing Dietrich yell, " _Hostile contact!_ " followed by bursts of fire from pulse rifles, and Vasquez's smartgun. "Hey, man, where are you?"

He got no answer, and gave a sigh. "Not good, man, not good."

We pressed forward, coming across a large control room. A massive wraparound window gave us a stunning view of a hangar, lined with several small fighter jets. Hudson glanced over the consoles and monitors before turning to me. "I got an idea. Get down to the hangar, make sure there's nobody in there. I'm gonna seal the doors."

"By myself?" I gave him a dirty look.

"Do we have a choice, man?"

I took a breath, and nodded. "Alright."

* * *

 _Question: Should Drake have been forced to open up about his mental health before being cleared for the mission?_

 _Author's Note: I know a few people have been expressing how they want to see the whole team in action. This is probably the closest I'll get in awhile, and I'm sorry that the team isn't complete. Action isn't my strong suit, so I was a little surprised when I received compliments on it for "Cold Spirits" and "Boreal Nightmare."_


	3. Chapter 3

I haven't run with my smartgun in quite some time. My lazy ass should've practiced before coming out here, but, no, I had to be dwelling on the crap in my head. I broke into a jog, working my way downstairs to the hangar, praying I didn't stupidly trip and crack my head open on my smartgun.

I went down two floors before the stairwell narrowed. There was only one way to go, and that was down. It would take more time than necessary to turn around with the big gun in my hands. Finally, I came to the door to the hangar. Naturally, there was a sign on it saying "Authorized Personnel Only," and it looked several years old. Angling my smartgun toward the ceiling, I kicked open the door.

The door swung open to reveal several masked men holding submachine guns standing around the large hangar. Some ducked behind aircraft or crates for cover, while those caught by surprise were quickly mowed down. I knew I was in a dangerous position, and started trying to get to a protected area. Bullets whizzed by my head as I slid behind a stack of heavy crates. As good as the smartgun is, it lacks the versatility of the pulse rifle. I was risking myself each time I came out from behind the crates, but at least I was hitting something each time.

Not to mention, I was sorely outnumbered. A man popped up from behind a cart, firing a single shot at me. I heard a loud _clang_ as the bullet struck the piece connecting the gun to my armor. Just my luck that it hit the hinge. I immediately felt the weapon become heavier as it came loose. There's a way to carry it without the armor and connector piece, but you have to be careful. This was not careful.

Getting behind the crates, I took a quick look at the damage. The connector was done for sure. The gun was still working, but was more difficult to stabilize.

Especially since I've been out of action for over a month.

I took a deep breath. I had no choice here. I have to clear the hangar and get back up to Hudson. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Coming out from behind the crates again, I sprayed bullets across the hangar, sweeping slowly in an attempt to flush out the terrorists, or get a lucky hit. I saw three fall, and the rest were seeing I was more vulnerable, so they started moving closer. Amidst the commotion, I didn't hear Hudson yelling, " _Drake! Get outta there, man!_ " over my headset.

Then, I saw it. A grenade rolling on the floor, getting closer and closer . . .

I dove further behind the crates just the grenade exploded. Thank God for them, because they bore the brunt of the explosion. They shoved me against the wall in the process, and cracked my chestplate.

The first thing I felt was pain in my chest.

Pain . . . in my chest.

As I lay on the ground, I found myself in a battle with my mind. It was trying to equate this pain with the pain I felt when I was first poisoned by the silver flower. _Don't. Just don't. That was a choking feeling . . . This isn't._ I took a breath, feeling a sharp jabbing in my ribs.

For the record, I lost. I saw myself collapsing, choking to death on the toxic fumes. I heard Delhoun breaking into the laboratory to get me out. I felt the doctors slamming the defibrillator against my chest.

Faintly, I could hear Hudson yelling my name over my headset. I forced myself to stand, but that wasn't a good idea, considering I was still being gripped by a flashback. I took a few, shaky steps before falling to my knees, passing out on the spot.

* * *

As I came around, Hudson was still calling for me. I slowly sat up, still feeling weak and dizzy. The voices and sounds and sensations had faded. I was covered in sweat and bruises.

My chestplate probably needed to be replaced, but, miraculously, the necklace of hare bones was still intact. Not a scratch to be seen.

I took a breath, trying to ignore the dull ache that enveloped my ribcage. "Hudson?" I gasped. "I'm OK."

Hudson breathed a sigh of relief. "Don't do that, man, you almost scared the shit outta me."

"Beyond my control." I stood up, praying I didn't pass out again. "I'm disarmed. I don't know what happened. The explosion must've wrecked my smartgun. My armor's history, too."

"Jesus, man, are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Probably some bruised ribs." I glanced up at the control room window, unable to see Hudson. "Can I get out of here?"

"No, you gotta find somewhere to hide, man. I just heard from Vasquez that we got company coming."

"Fuck." I looked around at the fighter jets, and a crazy idea hit me. _No one would suspect anyone hiding in the cockpit._ I climbed up the ladder of the jet nearest to me, and crawled into the cockpit. As soon as I sat down, the cockpit closed. Despite the window, I suddenly felt claustrophobic.

"What the hell did you do, man?"

"I got into one of the planes," I replied.

"You're an 'unauthorized pilot.'"

"I'm not gonna fly it, moron, I'm just gonna hide out in here. I have no weapons."

"Drake, unless I can bypass the security system, you're a sitting duck. There's a fucking red light blinking under the jet."

"Oh, for the love of God!"

"Sit tight, man, I'm working on it."

I don't know how long I was sitting there. It probably wasn't that long, but it was long enough for my brain to start playing games with me. Pretty soon, all I could think about was how much air was in the cockpit. I already panicked once today; I refused to panic again.

Hudson could hear my increased breathing through his headset. "Take it easy, Drake. Relax."

I swallowed. _I gotta relax. I gotta relax. I'm not gonna make it if I don't relax._

"There's a helmet and oxygen mask behind you," Hudson said. "Come on, man, just take one deep breath."

I reached behind me and fumbled around for this supposed helmet and oxygen mask. As soon as I felt the cold plastic-like material, I grabbed it, and pulled the mask over my face. I didn't like the feeling of the mask sealing over my skin, but if it meant I was breathing, I'll deal with it.

"You doing OK?"

"Better," I replied. "Somewhat better."

"Look, I'm not leaving this spot, man. I'm gonna stay with you, I promise."

"Even though I treated you like garbage at breakfast?"

"We're at work now, Drake. I'm not leaving you behind. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever."

I should've felt reassured when he said that. Instead, I was still very unsure, both of myself and of Hudson.

My doubt dissipated when I heard the firing of a pulse rifle over my headset. " _Tryin' to sneak up on me?!_ " Hudson shouted. " _You bet I'll be pissing on your grave!_ "

The shootout lasted two minutes, but it was one of the longest two minutes of my life. I felt helpless as I listened to Hudson take out what I guessed was a terrorist ambush. Not too long after the firing stopped, Hudson said, "Sorry about that, man. How're you-"

"Hudson, where in the fuck are you and Drake?!" Apone snapped over the headset.

"I'm locked in the hangar control room, Sarge," Hudson replied. "Drake is hiding in the hangar."

"What the hell is going on? We've been trying to reach you for over ten minutes?"

"I had Drake go down to clear the hangar so I could seal the doors."

"You sent Drake all by himself? Dammit, Hudson, I thought you were smarter than that! You _never_ send a smartgunner by themselves!"

"Sorry, sir."

"'Sorry?' ' _Sorry?!_ ' Do you realize Drake could've been killed? Is he injured?"

I pressed a button on my headset. "Just some bruised ribs, Sarge," I said. "Other than that, I'm OK."

"I don't care if you just stubbed your fucking toe. Hudson disobeyed the rules in sending you on your own."

"With all due respect, I . . . I . . ." I lost my thought, unsure of how to defend Hudson. He did it for me all the time. Why couldn't I do it for him?

"We'll discuss this when we go home. Is that hangar clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Hudson, get Drake outta there."

"I can't, Sarge," Hudson replied.

"Why not?"

"Because Drake's not an authorized pilot, I can't unlock the cockpit. Not unless I got a keycard or something like that. The security system's been locked down. I can't access a damn thing."

"You know what? Stay where you are. We're gonna bust Drake out."

As soon as Apone couldn't hear us, I said, "This is my fault. I'm the moron who thought it'd be a good idea to hide in a fucking cockpit."

"Don't blame yourself, man," Hudson moaned.

It was quiet until I heard him mumbling, "Keycard . . . keycard . . . wait a fucking minute."

The mike shut off. I could no longer hear him. Wondering if something went wrong, I struggled to suppress my panic. Despite the fact that I couldn't communicate with him, I still whimpered, "Hudson?"

* * *

I would later learn that I had been left alone for a half-hour. No contact with anyone for half-an-hour. I didn't dare touch anything in that jet, for fear the security features might kick in and electrocute me, or burn me, or whatever crazy shit was installed here to prevent the thing from being hijacked.

I then heard the sound of a generator dying. The lights inside the jet turned off, and the cockpit swung open. Cautiously, I stood up and looked around, not seeing anyone or anything coming toward me. Without another thought, I climbed down the ladder, and ran toward the doors leading to the control room. They opened automatically, and I dashed upstairs, fighting past the pain in my ribs.

Shoving open the doors of the control room, I saw the rest of the squad standing, and Hudson sitting on the floor with a bandaged left forearm. It didn't take me long to see why; parts of the control panel were covered in blood. "Jesus Christ, what happened?" I asked aloud.

"He cut himself," Dietrich replied.

"What? Why?"

"Only way to take out the fucking security system," Hudson muttered. "Not sure how diluted the poison is, but, hey, that pill did its job. Took awhile for the damn computer to take note of a weird metal, that's for sure."

Tired as I was, I realized what Hudson had done. He must've had a hunch that the silver flower toxin was still circulating in his body, and remembered spitting on an expired gift card to break into a kennel that required a keycard for access. I'm guessing that the toxin is no longer present in his saliva, because I don't think cutting himself would be his first plan.

The air was saturated with a pregnant silence that had fallen over us. We could all sense that everyone wanted to say or ask something, but something within us all was preventing us from doing so. Was it timing? Emotions? I don't know, and I don't care to know. I just knew my ass was going to get kicked when we returned to base.

* * *

I was right when I said that this mission was a simple hit-and-run. I don't know why this particular group of terrorists wanted the jets, and it's none of my business. My job was to go in, shoot as many as I could, and leave. I did that, but I lost my smartgun and damaged my armor in the process.

In a way, I felt like I lost a part of myself when I got on the aircraft and didn't have my weapon. It was a feeling that I can't really explain unless you've experienced it yourself. I guess you can compare it to losing a limb.

I know I can be emotional, but this was one thing that I (shockingly) didn't cry over. A heavy feeling came over my heart when I sat down, knowing that the smartgun I had handled since my arrival into this unit was gone. Sure, I can get a new one, but it won't be the same.

So much had happened in so little time.

Someone's going to look at this and think the way I described the battle in the hangar was complete shit. I'll answer all their questions with this: the battle wasn't the point of me documenting it. I could've left it out completely if I wanted to. The point is that this was my first combat assignment since being ill. The point is that shit happened and I still feel like I'm not fit for duty, I'm a failure, and so on and so forth.

There's more to that. One of my other points is that I'm still baffled by Hudson. Instead of getting to know him better, I'm getting more and more confused. This man straight-up _cut himself_ for me. I don't equate cutting yourself with heroism; I equate it with thoughts of suicide. I guess this is an exception, an act of desperation, a selfless and possibly dangerous move. If it was just me around, I wouldn't be too concerned, but no one else in this unit thinks like me. Dear God, some of them are probably going to think that Hudson's becoming suicidal.

In my opinion, it's not that wrong of an idea. He did go through a traumatic event (being poisoned and experimented on by Doctor Hornby), he took a medication that made him go bonkers if the conditions were right, he's been serving for quite some time, and he's not someone you'd expect to be suicidal.

It's always the person you least expect to be suffering the worst. The only difference is that I'm closer to Hudson than anyone else is in this unit, and I know he's not suicidal.

Then again, I've been pondering the last two days about what he tries to say to me when he communicates nonverbally. There really could be something going on that even I don't know about. I did say, "Why don't you tell me what's bothering you?" when I yelled at him during breakfast. He dismissed that when I was panicking in the jet, however, that was "work Hudson." "Normal Hudson" might've said something different. My job is to find out what that is.

* * *

In the morning, I went to breakfast expecting Apone to give us a lecture on how bad we did, but that didn't happen. The table was quiet, and that seemed to suck the appetite right out of me. I looked around, noticing that no one really wanted to make eye contact with me. Vasquez glanced at me, and she reached under the table to touch my hand. I had an urge to get up and lean over the table to nuzzle her face, but I resisted that with a sad sigh.

"Can you just eat your food, Drake, and stop picking at it?" Apone asked. "Jesus, every Goddamn meal with you."

I refused to argue, so I got a forkful of the infamous powdered eggs and took a bite. As I forced myself to eat, I looked up to see a really bedraggled Hicks walking stiffly into the room. He was clutching the top of his dirty bathrobe closed, and appeared to be confused. _Very_ confused. He needed to shave and he seemed to have lost a lot of weight. After glancing around with bloodshot eyes, he rasped, "What day is it?"

"It's Thursday," Apone said. "You've been asleep for about three days."

"Asleep." Hicks sighed. "OK." He looked at me, and gave me a weak smile.

I didn't feel like being smiled at right now, so my expression didn't change.

Hicks's smile faded a little. He gave a slight, subtle nod, telling me that he understood I wasn't in the mood. It was almost . . . inviting, like he was saying, "Come talk to me later." He's not hard to read at all. He looked at all of us, and then settled on Hudson. More specifically, the bandage on his arm. "What happened?"

Before anyone could give a good answer, Dietrich said, "Cut himself."

"On accident?"

"On purpose."

Hudson glared at Dietrich, then looked up at Hicks. "It's not what you think, man. We got a combat assignment yesterday. Terrorists in Indonesia. Drake got stuck in a hangar and I couldn't bypass the security system normally. I knew I still have a diluted poison in me, so I said, 'What the hell? It worked before.' Electronics react to it."

"You definitely could've explained that better," I muttered.

"I think I explained it fine. It's better than him assuming I cut myself just because."

Hicks didn't say anything else, and turned to walk stiffly back to his room. I assumed his long nap helped him feel better, but I could hear his raspy breathing and wet cough. It was so eerily similar to what I've heard in my nightmares, and it made me a little nervous. I dismissed that feeling, though, telling myself that it was just a bad dream.

* * *

 _Question: In literature, Drake can be classified as an "unreliable narrator"-everything is purely from his point of view and he's apt to bend events in his image. If you were a Marine in this squadron, would you believe he's telling the truth about Hudson's actions?_

 _Author's Note: When I thought of the "stuck in a plane" scene at boot camp, it was a lot more detailed and tense. When I actually started writing the story at home, it was not.  
_

 _It's fun connecting things I learned in English class to my work. The unreliable narrator concept is one of them. Drake is definitely unreliable in the sense that he's not telling the whole truth. But, since he's the only person telling the story, what's the truth? If you read the short story I wrote from Vasquez's point of view, does she sound more reliable than him? Maybe the question should be who's the most reliable character in this series._


	4. Chapter 4

There are normally more people in the gym between breakfast and lunch. Today, there was no one except for me. I was fine with that. As I changed into my PT gear, I noticed the bruises from yesterday. Several ugly-looking dark-purple marks were spread all over the thin layer of skin that covers my ribs. They hurt to touch, and I thought they were going to take forever to heal.

Frankly, I shouldn't be exercising with them. After hopping up to a pull-up bar, I winced in pain as I let myself dangle from it. It felt like the discolored parts of my torso were going to tear open. Dropping down, I gave a grunt of disappointment, and sighed.

Hudson entered the gym shortly after I began sinking in my disappointment. He threw a towel over his shoulder, and disappeared into the locker room without saying anything to me. I stared at the door, looking confused, until he re-entered the gym. "Hey, man," he said, dropping his towel by the bench press.

"What?" I replied.

"'What?' I dunno. Kinda figured you were in here."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because this place is empty, and that's how you like it."

"Fuck you."

Hudson glanced at me while putting weights on the bar. "Should I even ask what's bothering you today, Drake? You're just gonna flip out on me. Just like you did yesterday. Nope, I'm not gonna ask, 'cause you're gonna get all defensive, and . . . whatever. You know the fucking drill, man."

"No. I'm not gonna 'get all defensive.' I know what's bothering me today." I sat on the bench next to the one Hudson was using. "I'm just shocked that you cut yourself to break me out of that plane."

"Spitting in the card-holder didn't work, so I did the next best thing." Hudson shrugged. "Why does it shock you? I thought you were aware of all that."

"I am, but we're not exactly alone anymore. You're not afraid that . . . the others might think you're nuts?"

"What else is new, man? I've always been nuts to them."

"No, I mean like they'll start thinking you're . . . you're looking for ways to hurt yourself."

Hudson smirked while pushing the heavy bar up. "Drake, I like you. A lot. But, you have this way of thinking that everyone who doesn't understand you is beneath you. I don't think anyone assumes I want to hurt myself. Hey, most of the people here have known me a lot longer than you have. I don't see a reason why they'd assume otherwise." He glanced at me, his smirk fading. "Do _you_ think I wanna hurt myself?"

"No."

"Good. 'Cause I don't. Does that settle everything?"

I nodded.

"I'm glad. Hey, I don't like seeing you upset, man."

"Are you telling the truth? I feel like I've pissed you off too many times to be forgivable."

"Is this what your conversations with Vasquez are like?"

"Absolutely not. Don't you dare bring her into this," I growled.

"I'm not trying to bring her into this."

"Good, because if you _ever_ -"

"Drake."

"What?"

"Shut up. That part of the conversation is over, man." Hudson re-racked his weights after getting off the bench. "Not saying that to be mean-"

"I know."

"Do you? You tend to take everything as a personal offense, man."

"Are you saying I'm fucking sensitive?"

"Drake, there's nothing wrong with being sensitive. Just know when a good time is to be sensitive, and when a bad time is to be sensitive."

"I am _not_ sensitive."

"I've seen you and Vasquez kiss."

My face flushed a deep red. "You've seen us kiss? Where?"

"In the back of the laundry room."

"Fuck."

"I haven't seen you fuck."

"And you're not going to, buddy." I gave Hudson a sarcastic smile. "If you do, I'll take you to Delhoun's office and open the cage of his most problematic Annexer. I'm sure Dakota will love using your face as a scratching post."

"OK, man." Hudson held up his hands. "Look-"

Before Hudson could say anything else, Apone walked into the gym. "There you are. Hicks wants to see you two."

"At the same time?" I asked.

"No. He wants Drake first, then Hudson."

"Alright." I headed into the locker room, changing out of my sweaty clothes before going out into the hall, in the direction of Hicks's bedroom.

* * *

My dreams from the last few nights were still bothering me. I was a little afraid that Hicks would turn into that nightmarish creature, but I kept telling myself that they were only dreams; this kind of stupid thinking is what I would've done if I was seven years old again.

I grew up in a major city. I didn't think it was possible to be afraid of things like monsters and the paranormal in a big city. There are too many people, and it's easy to access the police. Of course, I watched scary movies and read stories about "sightings" of things that go bump in the night. Didn't bother me. At least until I went on a road trip to visit relatives way out in the country. Then I got scared.

I must've been ten at the time, and I remember wanting to be treated like an adult and not a child. All kids go through that phase. I kept insisting on my aunt to not recall events from when I was three, but she went right on talking about how I was "really late" when it came to fucking toilet training. I tried switching the topic to little league baseball, but, no; apparently, I was "really cute" as a baby and toddler and it was much better to talk about that. I swear, if Vasquez and I ever have a kid, I will _never_ go on and on about shit they did when they were three. Unless they piss me off, that's a different story.

Anyway, I got sick of hearing about embarrassing crap, so I went outside, despite my mother telling me it was too dark out and I needed to stay inside till morning. Naturally, I didn't care, so I kept right on going. That was a mistake, and solidified that I wasn't ready to be treated like an adult. I went into the woods telling myself that there was nothing to be scared of, but every scary story I've ever heard just erupted from the back of my mind. I was certain some bogeyman was going to come and get me. The safety and comfort of the big city was gone, and I was all alone.

To make a long, rambling story short, I basically proved that I still had a child's mindset by running back into the house and claiming that "something was out there." As I got older, I watched scarier and scarier stuff, and it wasn't until I joined the Marines that I learned aliens do, in fact, exist, but they weren't what the movies made them out to be. Hell, Annexers aren't scary, and although Aran's people, the Engineers, are crazy smart and supposedly hostile at times, he's my friend. I guess you could say I've gotten less scared over the years, but the silver flower set me back.

I know children and adults can get PTSD. I know trauma comes in many, many different forms. I know people react to situations differently. I just wish I wasn't so scared that I didn't want to bring it up with a doctor, and get actual help, find out whether or not I'm actually suffering. Then again, I think it's obvious that I'm suffering at this point. Too much has happened that points to me suffering from something people can't see, unless I'm so scared of it that the flashbacks are nothing more than my head being afraid of the possibility _alone_ of post-traumatic stress.

How'd I go from being scared of Hicks to being scared of myself?

I saw Hicks's door was open, but I knocked anyways. He was sitting upright in bed, still wearing that dirty robe. All the machines he'd been connected to were off, the tubes neatly hung over them. Something was telling me that Hicks had done that all on his own after waking up.

Hicks obviously still felt like crap, but he forced himself to smile and gesture for me to close the door and sit in the chair by his desk. The machines made me a little uncomfortable, as they reminded me of scenes in movies where a character has a debilitating illness and has to have their own little hospital right there in their living space. At least we know Hicks won't be like this forever.

I took a breath. "So . . . what do you want to talk about?"

"I'm supposed to ask you that, Drake," Hicks replied.

"No. You've been out for three days. Don't you want to know what's been going on around this God-awful place?"

Hicks shook his head. "I heard all I need to know from Hudson this morning."

"No, you didn't-"

"Yes, I did." Hicks pulled a tissue from a box on his nightstand, and hunched over to cough into it.

I sighed. "Come on, I shouldn't be bothering you."

"I invited you in here."

"Why? Why me? Why not talk to Apone about all the shit you've missed?"

"I'll get to that. I want to know how you're doing."

"'How I'm doing?!' Hicks . . . I'm not-"

"Please, don't do this now, Drake. I know it's fairly obvious, but I don't fucking feel good right now. I could sleeping, but I actually thought about you when I woke up, and wanted to know if you've been doing anything at all to improve yourself since we last talked."

I sighed. "Well . . . honestly . . . I . . . haven't."

"Why not?"

I shrugged. "Tired. Not motivated. You know how that feels, right?"

"I do, but I also know how to push past those feelings."

"Yeah, well, I don't. I can't just fucking push every time someone says 'push.' I'm sorry."

Hicks coughed into a tissue again. He then pulled a blanket tighter around himself.

"How would you like it if I told you to just push past your . . . your little cold here? It's just a cold, Hicks. You're being dramatic." I knew I was being sarcastic while trying to prove a point; I just hope Hicks knew that, too.

What followed was a long silence. Hicks was so insanely vulnerable, and it made me feel awful for saying what I said. The man hasn't done any of his regular duties in over two weeks. I can't imagine the mental toll it's taken on him. He drew up his knees, and rubbed his face. "There's obviously something you're not telling me, Drake. What is it? I know you're normally cranky, but never _this_ cranky."

I shut my eyes, and sighed. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure why I was cranky in the first place. It was probably a combination of me neglecting my basic needs again, being in disbelief over Hicks sleeping for over three days, and my confusion over Hudson despite my earlier conversation with him. With that in mind, I explained how I wasn't fully understanding people's body language, and referenced Hudson by name, knowing Hicks would keep this confidential. Hicks asked why this bothered me so much, and I said it was because this was the first time someone's ever put complete trust in me. Now, that's definitely a lie, because Vasquez has been trusting me for years, but, you know, I can't say that to Hicks.

"I think when you're thinking about something else constantly, it makes understanding nonverbal gestures more difficult. Your condition doesn't help, either."

A chill began slowly moving down my spine. "My what?"

"Drake, did you honestly think that you could _hide_ your mental health from everyone? Did you?"

"What the hell're you talking about?"

"It's _all_ there. When you were explaining what was going to Spunkmeyer a few days, something clicked, and I realized that what's going on with you is more than just the occasional nightmare."

Now _I_ felt vulnerable. I felt like someone had taken a knife and slit open my entire torso, exposing my guts for the world to see.

"Drake, why the fuck would you try to cover up the fact that you're actively suffering from post-traumatic stress? You're not helping anyone by doing that, especially not yourself."

I covered my face, and completely dropped my guard. I sobbed, suddenly wishing I could run away and not look back. "I . . . I don't want to get thrown out of the Marines." I untucked my shirt, using it to wipe my face. "This is all I fucking have. I can't . . . I don't have anywhere to go if I get kicked out. They could send me back to prison if I get kicked out before my stint is up. I can't get a job if I got 'PTSD' written on my papers. Who'd want to hire me if they gotta make accommodations for me?"

"Number one, it's illegal for you to be turned down just because you have some kind of health condition. People with physical and mental disabilities get hired by civilian businesses all the time. There's no reason you wouldn't be hired if you don't present a danger to yourself or others, OK?" Hicks handed me his tissue box. "Number two, you won't get kicked out if you seek help, and especially if you don't have somewhere to go. We're not animals, Drake; if you know that you'd be homeless if you were discharged, we'll do whatever we can to make sure that you're not just dumped in the streets."

A massive weight should've lifted off my shoulders that moment, but it felt like only a little bit of weight had been removed. For the longest time, having PTSD was my biggest fear, and someone in authority finding out was next. Hicks just took care of both, trying to set me at ease, so why did I still feel burdened?

"So, am I correct when I assume that . . . this has been really, really bothering you?"

I nodded.

"And, you convinced yourself that if you told someone, you'd be automatically removed from the USCM?"

Again, I nodded.

"Does it make you feel better to know that you won't? Hey, I can't do much right now, but when I get better, I'm gonna see what I can do in terms of getting somebody down here to start you on some form of therapy, alright?"

"You're gonna tell Apone?"

"I don't have a choice. Do you understand that? I don't think he's going to consider you less of a Marine when he finds out. This isn't something that you can control, but once you start getting help, I hope you'll be able to regain control over your mind, OK?"

"Is . . . everyone else gonna find out?"

"Only if you choose to tell them."

"Everything will be confidential?"

"Not everything. Your therapist is going to have to fill out certain records to be handed in to the USCM. Depending on how your treatment goes, that is one factor in determining whether you're fit for combat, changing your job, whether or not you want to become an officer, being separated, benefits, etcetera." Hicks shrugged. "I don't know every detail. That's something you'll have to talk to the therapist about."

"Am I at risk of being separated?"

"If you refuse treatment, yes. And, you're not staying here if you do. You'll be transferred to Sydney, where you'll explain to someone like General Russell about your situation. After that, you'll be sent to a separations barracks, and wait for a permanent departure date. While you're waiting, you'll be able to inform them that you're homeless and they'll work something out, most likely planning to send you somewhere that you can afford to stay while you search for a job. You have your GED?"

I nodded.

"That's good enough for most businesses. Hey, if you want, try for college."

"I'm too stupid for college."

"You're not stupid, Drake. Stubborn? Yes. Moody? Yes. Stupid? No. I think you'd do great if you know what you want to do."

"I don't know what to do. I . . . I should focus on . . ."

"Getting better? Yeah. Nothing's going to change overnight." Hicks lay down on his pillow. "First step to solving a problem is admitting it's there, and you took that first step. Don't lose faith in yourself, Drake."

 _I lost faith in myself a long time ago._ "I'll try." Standing up, I put the chair back by Hicks's desk. That was undoubtedly the deepest conversation I've ever had with him. I still wanted to know how he figured out I'm suffering, unless I really did a piss-poor job at covering it up. Then again, I know I need help, and I'm not going to refuse it, not when I have people here that I care about.

* * *

 _Question: Drake might say out loud that he's not resisting help, but could he resist it subconsciously?_

 _Author's Note: Honestly, I've never heard my writing be described as "catchy." Thank you. I love reading comments like that._


	5. Chapter 5

I felt like my whole world had been flipped on its head until later that night, when Vasquez invited me to her bedroom. Of course, a session of cuddling isn't going to change things back to how they normally should be, but if it was a temporary way out of the craziness, I'll take it.

As soon as I got into her bed, Vasquez said, "What did Hicks want to talk to you about?"

"That's not important," I replied, putting my arms around her.

She put her hand on my lips. "Why not?"

"Because I don't wanna talk about it."

"Really? Then, if you can't trust me, get out."

I sighed. "Alright. He . . . He's convinced I have post-traumatic stress disorder, and is planning on getting help as soon as he feels better."

"And you're not getting kicked out?"

"Nope. Not unless I refuse help. Trust me, I don't want to, you know, leave you."

"I'm the only reason you're staying?"

"Yeah-"

"What about Hudson?"

"He'd be fine-"

"No. He'd be heartbroken. Drake, he's actually _trying_ to be your friend, and you're pushing him away, just like you did with Hicks. I don't get it; last week, you were worried that the trust between you and Hudson was only going one way, so you told him about us. Now . . . I just don't get it."

"I guess I started to see myself as unworthy to keep that friendship going. I mean, he cut himself and bled for me. I couldn't do that for anyone."

"A lot of people wouldn't. That's no reason for you to be ashamed or try to wreck something good you have going. Not to mention, I've seen you act . . . kind of abusive with him."

I snorted. "Me? Abusive? With _Hudson?_ We've all done shitty stuff to each other."

"Drake, a joke is different. When you yelled at him a few days ago, when you threatened him in Washington, when you threatened him earlier today because he simply mentioned me in the gym-"

"Wait, he told you about that?"

"Yeah. Why not? You are abusive towards him." Vasquez shrugged. "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's the truth."

I fell silent. People have always tried to convince me I'm not a horrible person, that I shouldn't blame myself for anything, but this came in like a sucker punch to the gut. I really am a horrible person. Grabbing my pants from the floor, I left the bed. "I need to be alone."

"Drake, wait-"

"Wait for what?! You just said that I'm abusive towards Hudson! I've been trying to not convince myself that I'm a horrible person, a-and clearly, I _am_ a horrible person!"

"Drake, you're not a horrible person. You don't actually want to hurt Hudson."

"Apparently, I do. And you should probably stay away from me as well."

"Drake, no."

"Yes. All I do is hurt people around me."

"You're being irrational." Vasquez got out of bed, and slapped me hard. "This is your fucking PTSD talking. Wake up for five minutes, and listen to what other people have to say!" She took a breath, anger glowing in her brown eyes. "You know what? If you want to be alone, and refuse to listen, be my fucking guest. Go ahead. This is why some people can't stand you; you don't listen, you're always stuck in your own head, you don't care about how anyone else feels, and the only time you do care is when _you're_ feeling guilty. You never do _anything_ out of the goodness of your tiny, pathetic, rotten apple of a heart!"

"Like you do anything _not_ under the influence of guilt."

"At least I don't treat everyone around me like garbage!"

"You refused to trust Hudson for two years, and you treated him like he was the dumbest man alive."

"That was one person, Drake. I don't act like the entire unit is full of idiots."

I couldn't argue anymore. Sighing, I looked Vasquez in the eye, saying softly, "Why'd you fall in love with me in the first place?"

"You weren't like this."

"Then why don't you just call it quits now? Call it quits, and I'll leave. Not just the room, but the Corps altogether. I'll leave, and you'll never have to deal with me and my shit ever again."

"I don't want to call it quits, and I don't want you to leave."

"Why?"

She covered her face, fighting a sob. "Because I still love you. There's just so much that I don't want to throw away. We've talked so many times about what we want to do, and . . . I don't want any arguments to trash that. All I ask, Drake, is that you listen. Please."

"Alright. I'm listening."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Vasquez sighed, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. "What I was trying to say earlier was, you're not trying to hurt Hudson on purpose. You didn't wake up one morning and say to yourself, 'I want to verbally and emotionally abuse Hudson.' I know you, and I know that's not in your nature. You just don't know how to handle your emotions. If you think someone's trying to expose a weakness, you threaten them, and try to make them feel like crap. Or, you make them feel like crap because _you_ feel like crap. You're . . . I guess, jealous that happiness comes easy to other people, and you hate that, so you bring them down to your level."

"Well, you're not wrong." I rubbed my face. "I don't know how much damage I've already done, and I don't know what to do to fix it."

"Just talk to him. It's that simple. You don't need to say everything that we talked about. Acknowledge that you said some things that were wrong, and see how he feels. I mean, it's Hudson; he'll forgive you. He can sit on a cactus and he'll still be smiling."

* * *

I hoped Vasquez was right about Hudson being forgiving, but my biggest question was whether or not Hudson was even aware that a lot of what I said to him could be considered emotionally abusive.

I probably should've paid more attention whenever I had to attend a lecture on domestic abuse. The last one I had was shortly after I left boot camp; I had to sit in a big hall while a pair of chaplains talked about the signs of abuse and what to do if you're being abused, or you suspect someone is being abused. It was primarily on abuse between romantic partners, and child abuse. Nothing on abuse between friends.

A lot of focus is on the victim, and how to help them. That's understandable, but you can't just chuck the abuser in jail and claim they're a terrible human being. There's a lot of reasons why someone might be hurtful, and they may not even realize they're doing it. I should know. Some people are assholes, but most aren't. I have a lot of shit going on, but that's no excuse for me to hurt somebody when they don't deserve it. I just need someone to tell me what's going on, and help me rather than paint me to be the devil.

I've exploded in front of Hudson before, in front of everyone. God only knows how they think of me. Vasquez is pretty much the only person who's told me that I treat Hudson badly, but, in all honesty, I want a second opinion.

And that second opinion will come from Delhoun.

I had almost forgotten that Delhoun has this big photoshoot with _National Geographic_ coming up when I entered his Annexer rehab facility. There were spaces cleared out (and of course all the junk he has was just shoved into a big broom closet), and certain areas of the facility had been cleaned.

Delhoun was in his bedroom. Naturally, that was still a fucking mess. He was hunched over his laptop while Winnie flung his clothes off the bed. She squealed with delight when she saw me, and took a pair of Delhoun's jeans in her teeth to present it to me.

"Good morning, Drake," Delhoun said without looking up.

"Hey," I replied. "Can I . . . ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Can you . . . make eye contact with me?"

Delhoun glanced at me, and then spotted Winnie from the corner of his eye. "What the hell are you doing?"

Winnie dropped one of his shirts on the floor.

"You're a little brat sometimes, you know that?" Delhoun reached over to grab her, and set her on his lap. "Alright, Drake, what's going on?"

"Well, last night, I kinda found out that . . . I'm . . . I can be . . . really mean to Hudson. Not just, you know, we joke around and we say stuff that we don't really mean. I'm talking about how . . . in the past, I've threatened him, and I've made him feel bad about himself, and I'm really not the friend I've made myself out to be."

"You became a toxic friend," Delhoun said. "I can see that."

"You've never really seen me talk to Hudson-"

"When you two were staying here a few weeks ago, I could hear your conversations in the shower. I definitely noticed that you were incredibly resistant toward Hudson. Even after you two became better friends, I noticed, while we were in Washington, that you still don't treat him the way normal friends do."

"So, you agree that I'm abusive?"

Delhoun blew a raspberry. "I don't think 'abusive' is the right word, Drake. Not for you anyways."

"Well, then, what is the right word?"

"Sorely misguided and emotionally wrecked."

"That's five words."

"Smartass." Delhoun snorted. "It's better than 'abusive.' 'Abusive' is too strong, not to mention overused. You just look at someone wrong, and they say, 'Holy fuck! You're abusive! Burn at the stake!' Bloody hell, that's the last generalization you want taped to your name." He looked up at me. "You're not abusive, Drake, trust me."

I didn't feel much better. "How do I improve my relationship with Hudson?"

"Do you think for yourself at all, Drake? Go back to base and talk to him. I can only tell you so much before it feels like I'm spoon-feeding you everything."

I clenched my fists. "You're usually more helpful than this. What happened?"

Delhoun sat up straight in his chair, letting Winnie jump off his lap. "What do you want me to say? I gave you my answer to your question. I don't think you're abusive. I think you're having a difficult time registering your emotions, so you express them in the only way you know how. That's all I have. I can't give you a damn speech every time you come in here. If you want a motivational speech, search online."

With that being said, I decided to leave, hoping that whatever therapy I'd be taking in a week or two would show me how to not be such a moron when it came to conversation.

* * *

After getting permission from Apone, I took Hudson out to mainland Australia, where I sat him down in a bar in order to have this potentially pointless conversation about how I'm a bad person. I didn't say much of anything until I sat across from Hudson in a booth in a corner, by a window, but that didn't mean he had no idea what was going on.

"OK, man, let's play Twenty Questions," he said, after ordering a beer and a plate of deep-fried onion rings. "Does this have to do with Hicks?"

"No," I groaned.

"Does this have to with Vasquez?"

"No."

"Does this have to do with Spunkmeyer?"

"No."

"Does this have to with anyone in the squad that you're not friends with?"

"No."

"Does this have to do with me?"

"Yes."

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Did you do something wrong?"

"Yes." I sighed. "I'm pretty sure you've noticed that . . . even though we claim we're friends, I'm not very nice to you."

"You're nice to me. Nicer than most people, to be honest."

"You don't feel like shit after talking to me?"

"Not . . . every single time I talk to you. I mean, what you did the morning of that mission was pretty bad, but, it doesn't change anything."

"You still cut yourself to get me out of that jet."

Hudson nodded. "I haven't forgotten anything you've done for me. Believe me, I feel bad that I don't know how to help you."

"Don't. The cat's out of the bag. Hicks is certain that I do have PTSD, and when he gets better, he'll talk to Apone about getting a therapist on base."

"Hey, you're finally gonna get professional help. That's what you've needed for a long time."

"I know." I put my head in my hands. "I've been such an idiot about it. I just . . . wish I asked more questions, and . . . wish I knew earlier that this wouldn't get me kicked out of the Marines. I mean, it could, but that's only if I refuse to take the help they offer."

"And you're not gonna refuse help, right?"

"Right. I don't have a choice. If I got kicked out, where would I go? I know I've been in for a few years, but I can't support myself forever on the miserable pay I'm getting. I'm not smart, so I could never get hired for something that'd pay me more than what I'm getting, and I definitely can't fucking afford college."

Hudson snorted. "Why the hell would you wanna go to college? You're not looking to work with tech, or medicine, or business, are you?"

"No. It'd get me a better job, though."

"And you'd be really fucking miserable, man. I'm not kidding. You'd never be able to save any money for yourself, because you'll be paying your college debt for thirty years. Not to mention the jobs that would make you something nice . . . you're not meant for. Besides, we're grunts; the professors will treat us like we're stupid. We didn't train to become medics or nukes or officers. I mean, I got computer knowledge up my sleeve, but not enough to get promoted, and not enough to get the kinda respect I'd like to have. You're definitely more of a laborer, Drake. You're the kind of person who prefers getting his hands dirty to feel like he's accomplished something."

I shrugged. "I don't know . . . I . . . When I leave, I want to be able to spend the rest of my life with Vasquez. We even agreed that we'll have a kid, when the time is right. I don't want to live paycheck-to-paycheck. I want to be able to give my son or daughter the best life possible. I want to give them everything I didn't have, and I don't want them to follow in my footsteps. I don't care if they wanna join the Marines-that's their choice-but I don't want them to go to prison."

"No one does, man." Hudson glanced to his left when a guy placed his order of beer and a plate piled high with onion rings in front of him. The onion rings appeared to have been just removed from a vat of hot oil; they were still softly sizzling. "Thanks, man!" he called before turning his attention back to me. "What was I saying? Oh, yeah, no one wants to see their kid in jail. I definitely wanna see you and Vasquez get married and be happy."

"Look, I'm torn between having you or Delhoun be my best man, but I know I've got a long time before I have to make that decision."

"I don't care. I just hope we stay in contact."

"You really want to stay in contact with me?"

"Why the fuck not, man? If it's true that you really don't have a family anymore, you need people to fill those empty spaces in your heart. I know I do."

I sighed. "How do I be . . . a better person towards you? Last night, Vasquez claimed I'm verbally abusive to you, and Delhoun said I'm just misguided and an emotional mess. I don't . . . want to be that."

"I think a lot of it has to do with you bottling yourself up all the time. I'm not a head doctor, but I certainly hope that whoever starts helping you will teach you how to control that or find a way for you to safely release your emotions when you feel the need to explode. Hell, if you need to vent, do it. Nothing wrong with venting. I'll sit there and listen."

"You won't if I'm telling you that you're obnoxious and you don't know how to shut up."

"Well, it won't be the first time. I'm kinda used to it by now." Hudson looked at his plate. I figured there was no way he was going to eat all those onion rings in one sitting, but I wouldn't put it past him to try. However, he pushed the plate toward me, saying, "Want one?"

"I haven't had real food in weeks. This'll have me up all night in the bathroom."

"Apone's not gonna let me refrigerate this."

"Alright, but you're buying the Pepto-Bismol for later."

* * *

I really should've had water and not alcohol when talking to Hudson. I'm well-aware that it's better to eat while drinking alcohol, but that doesn't mean I won't get tipsy. I'm still not sure how we went from talking about how we're still friends to embarrassing gym incidents, but, we got there.

I'll be real; I'm not a very experienced drinker. The last time I got wasted was while I was waiting to be assigned to my unit. A group of idiots decided going to a bar was a great way to celebrate graduation. I had no idea what I was doing, and ended up landing face-first in a puddle of my own vomit when I passed out.

At least I was with Hudson this time. I was definitely not myself after my third drink, and Hudson had to half-drag me back to base while I slurred something about how Winnie once stole a pair of my boxers and tore them up to use as lining for her bed. Unfortunately, we were seen by Apone and Hicks, and they were not happy when they saw me flopped over Hudson's shoulder. I guess that since I didn't get into any fights or drove, they'd let me off the hook, but my leave privileges were revoked for a whole week. And I had to clean the pool after I recovered from my hangover.

Hudson put me in my room after getting yelled at by Apone, and I vaguely remember him saying, "Don't turn this into a habit, Drake."

* * *

 _Question: Do you think Hudson is being too lenient with Drake in regards to how they treat each other?_

 _Author's Note: One thing I'm definitely thinking about doing next is something Christmas-themed. Not something overly sweet and sappy (Drake and Vasquez under the mistletoe is guaranteed, though), but something a tad darker. I'm a big fan of Christmas stories that encompass the whimsy of the holiday as well as dark elements. It's not an easy task, but it's a challenge I'm willing to tackle. Honestly, the hardest part might be coming up with a non-cheesy, two-word title, and a good summary. Not sure why those can be difficult sometimes._


	6. Chapter 6

I got up once during the night to throw up, and didn't go back to sleep afterwards. While I puked in the toilet, I remembered my carelessness while I was out with Hudson. I remembered how I got too comfortable and drank a few beers too many. Like I wrote before, at least Hudson didn't make me drink more, and at least he wasn't really drunk himself, and at least neither of us did anything embarrassing.

I wanted to go back to bed, but I felt completely sapped of energy. Unable to get up, I stayed where I was, but didn't bother flushing the toilet in case I decided to throw up again. So, I had to kneel there and endure the stench of vomit. It's something I've done before, but it's not something I'm used to, nor do I want to be.

There was a point where I did fall asleep, and, of course, my dreams were horrible. I heard someone outside the bathroom door, and opened it to see who it was. Once again, I was being hunted by a rabid Hicks. Before I could lock myself in the bathroom, he wedged himself in the door, taking a swipe at me with his clawed hand. This time, I wanted to fight back. It was pretty obvious that he didn't recognize me, nor did he care; he was loaded with Annexer hormones and had only one desire. I threw myself against the door, trying to break his ribs and make him flee in pain. As I continued to press on the door, Hicks grabbed me by the front of my shirt, and forced his way into the bathroom. He kicked the door shut, and pushed me against the shower.

I couldn't fight back. I knew he was going to play with me a little before biting into my neck, so I screamed. My screaming must've pissed him off, because he bit my chin, and tried yanking my lower jaw out. _Now_ I was fighting; I pushed, kicked and even got a punch out. All that just made him mad. He dug his claws into my left side. As he raked them down to my hip, someone yanked him up by the back of his shirt. Hudson whirled Hicks around to face him, and socked him in the jaw. "Wake up, man!" he hollered.

The dream was fading, and I could feel someone gently shaking my shoulder. "Hey, man, wake up." When I didn't move, Hudson poked my back. He must've jabbed a nerve or something, because I shot right up.

I looked around, seeing I was still in the bathroom, and in front of the toilet, which was still not flushed. Hudson was staring down at me, a concerned look in his eyes.

"Just wanted to see how you're doing," Hudson said.

"I'm . . . kneeling in front of a toilet full of puke. How do you think I'm doing?"

"That's the least of your problems, man. How's your head feel?"

"It's definitely throbbing."

"You realize Apone's not happy, right?"

"I vaguely remember that, yeah."

"But since you didn't hurt anyone, or drive, you're not in too much trouble. He's gonna let you rest today."

I frowned. "Is this a joke?"

"No. Hicks already told him about what's going on with you. I overheard them say somebody's coming by tomorrow to talk to you 'bout getting your therapy started."

"Neither of them announced it to the world, did they?"

"Nah, they were talking in Hicks's room. You missed breakfast, by the way."

"That's OK. I'm not hungry. At all."

Hudson walked over to the sink and fill up a glass with water. "You're probably really dehydrated, though, man. Don't get up, lemme give the cup to you."

I stared at the glass before drinking from it, as slowly as I could. A few thoughts began connecting together, and I asked, "Does Vasquez know about this?"

"'Bout you coming home drunk? She knows. I talked to her after putting you to bed. Definitely wasn't happy."

I sighed. "Jesus, I fucked up real bad, didn't I?"

"Don't put yourself down, Drake. You made a mistake."

"All I do is make mistakes. I'm a fucking walking accident waiting to happen."

Hudson sighed. He looked and sounded defeated, so he didn't bother trying to convince me that none of this was my fault anymore. He did, however, help me stand up and lead me in the bedroom, after making me clean the taste of vomit out of my mouth. I really didn't want to sit in bed all day, but my stomach gave a sick-sounding moan that told me trying to do anything remotely active was a bad idea. Besides, I didn't want to be cleaning up after myself every other hour.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, Hudson removed his dogtags to twirl them around his fingers. He glanced around my room, probably taking note of how much neater it was compared to his. It took me a moment to see that he wasn't going anywhere. "You know, you don't have to watch me," I muttered.

"I don't want you to be alone all day when you don't feel good, man."

"You'll get in trouble."

"No, I won't. I got permission from Hicks."

"Hicks needs to go fucking rest."

"He is. He's just trying to work from his bed."

"Wish I could work from my bed."

Hudson smirked, spinning his tags one more time before looking at me. "I got cards in my room, you know, if you wanna do something other than talk."

"I'll probably puke all over them."

"I think it's just dry heaves you gotta worry about, man." Hudson stood up. "I'll be back."

Any onlooker would tell me just how much of a hypocrite I was for not wanting Hudson's help. After all, I took him out for a drink yesterday in order to make up for my wrongs; I should be putty in his hands right now. Of course I felt bad that I was being cranky again, but you try being a rainbow-shitting-unicorn while experiencing a hangover.

Hudson came back, holding a well-worn deck of cards. He sat on the bed, absentmindedly shuffling the cards. "Anything you're particularly good at?"

I shook my head. "I haven't played any card games in years. I think the last one I played was Uno or something like that."

"Well, I don't have an Uno deck, man. I'm not that good at anything, either, but it doesn't hurt to have a deck of cards lying around."

"If we're both stupid, why'd you offer to get cards?"

"Boredom. Also, because if we just sit and talk, you'll start to get agitated, say things you don't mean, and I don't wanna do that to you."

I think Hudson half-expected me to get defensive and claim that wouldn't happen, but I knew he was right. I remained silent, listening to him explain the rules to various card games I didn't even know existed. Unfortunately, I wasn't paying all that much attention; I was half-focused on my nausea, and half-focused on my talk with Hicks yesterday. I could only hope that the therapist they brought in would actually help me, and I was honestly worried that whatever treatment they decided on wouldn't work.

"Drake, you listening, man?"

I glanced at Hudson, suddenly feeling a little guilty. "No . . . I'm not listening. I'm sorry."

"Do you need to talk?"

I nodded. "Just thinking about tomorrow. Wondering what'll happen if . . . if therapy doesn't work." I rested my head on my knees. "Would that mean I'm . . . truly broken beyond repair? How would I be able to live my life normally if that's the case?"

"I don't think that'll happen. They'll find a way to help you."

"Well, what if they can't?"

"Don't give up on yourself. You have people around you who care. Don't underestimate them, man." Hudson held out his left arm, showing me the four-inch scar he inflicted on himself to break me out of a security-locked fighter jet. "There's that, and then there's the fact that Hicks is sick as all hell, but forced himself up to get help for you. We've put you first, because we want you to get your life back on track. It really does pain us to see you suffering."

"So, this isn't about . . . keeping the squad together? It's actually because you care about me?"

"I care about you. I dunno what Hicks's reasons are."

"I just don't want to feel like a fucking puzzle piece anymore."

"Well, the piece is kinda important in making sure the puzzle is together."

"Sometimes, I'm tired of being a team player, and not being recognized for anything. I'm tired of putting in so much effort, and never getting so much as a 'thank you.' But, when I do get a 'thank you,' I feel like I don't deserve it. Why thank someone who doesn't care? I haven't . . . I haven't done anything. I don't stand out for good reasons. But, if somebody does want to recognize me, I just . . . don't feel like I deserve it." I rubbed my face, finding myself choking on tears. "What does that mean?"

"It might mean . . ." Hudson thought for a moment, "you need more hugs, man."

"I'm not joking around-"

"I know you're not joking around. OK, what I mean is, you wanna be appreciated more. I've seen you work, and, yeah, you could use some more appreciation. I take it that's one reason you were kinda hostile toward Hicks when he approached you a few weeks ago."

I nodded.

"No one really thanks me for anything, and I just roll with it, but I wouldn't be upset or nervous if somebody told me that I'm doing a good job."

"Does it make me look like a wimp?"

"No. You've been here a few years, so . . . I kinda take it as you bottled this up, and it's right now threatening to come to the surface. I mean, that's kinda your main problem, bottling things up and refusing to let people know how you really feel."

"How do I let people know how I feel without exploding on them?"

"Tell them before it gets to that point. I dunno, man, that's what I think."

"What if that's not possible?"

"Again, I dunno."

I really couldn't get mad at him. Hudson's not a therapist, nor does he have to deal with what I go through. "I think I can use that hug you mentioned."

I keep forgetting that Hudson is really rough when it comes to hugging. In two seconds flat, he grabbed me in a bear-hug and squeezed me hard. I shouldn't be annoyed; I should appreciate that he hugs me like a brother. As I'm working on this entry, I've been thinking about how I referenced that Hicks was starting to feel like an older brother in one of my other journals. Hudson is now feeling like a younger brother. Do they see me in a similar way? I'm afraid to ask.

* * *

I felt less sick around dinnertime, but that didn't mean my nausea was completely gone. After sitting down with everyone else, I resisted the urge to sigh at the pitifully thin slice of pork on the tray. What I could really go for is some homemade chicken soup, or just a small cup of broth. Maybe my appetite would return if I was eating something . . . more appetizing.

Hicks, bundled in a clean robe this time, was at the table as well, and taking very small bites of what he was given. He noticed me staring from the corner of his eye, and a chill shot down my spine.

Whenever Hudson was about to go berserk, his pupils would dilate, and he would focus hard on whatever-it-was he wanted to leap on. Hicks was doing something similar, and, naturally, it was making me nervous and uncomfortable. I know Delhoun said the use of hormones from a Polar Annexer would produce different effects compared to hormones from a Standard, but it wouldn't change the fact that they serve the same purpose of flushing the silver flower toxin out of someone's body by exaggerating their response to stressors. Hicks is not as easily stressed as Hudson, but that doesn't mean he has no breaking point. His situation, frankly, isn't helping.

Polar Annexers don't use their energy in short bursts the way Standards do. They channel it over long periods of time, making them more effective at stalking prey for great distances. Delhoun hasn't had the chance to test it, but he theorizes that this could result in Hicks losing sense of himself for far longer than Hudson did, and it might be slightly harder to snap him out of it.

I guess that was what scared me; God only knows if this could continue into the night, when we're all asleep and fully vulnerable. I know Hicks isn't going to abruptly mutate into the monster I see in my dreams. I know that's merely a physical manifestation of my fears, not just for Hicks, but for myself. Maybe that's why Hudson appeared in my dream last night; he represented my subconscious hope that therapy would help me, that it would "beat back" my PTSD.

You can assume that I didn't sleep that night. Despite the murmur of people out in the hallway, I was constantly thinking that I was hearing something right outside the door. It was worse when I was in my bathroom, naked and unarmed. I would've been quick with my shower if it wasn't for the fact that I didn't shower last night, and therefore smelled like alcohol and vomit for a whole day.

There was an eerie silence when I stepped out of the shower, quickly wrapping a towel around my waist. I took a deep breath, noting that I was still a little woozy from my hangover. Although I felt better after getting dressed, it didn't eliminate my fear and anxiety.

I was about to settle down with my journal when someone knocked on the door. "Drake, everyone's down in the gym playing basketball. Wanna come?" Vasquez asked.

"Do they actually want me there?" I replied.

"Yes. They wouldn't have sent me if they didn't want you, dumbass."

I locked my journals back up, and put on my sneakers before leaving the room with Vasquez. "Hang on," I said, pulling her aside. "Are you . . . mad at me because of what happened last night?"

The whole reason Vasquez was in prison, and later the Marines, is because she killed someone while drunk. She'd been uncomfortable around alcohol for a long time afterwards, and just seeing someone get tipsy can set her back. She thought long and hard about her response before saying, "I'm just glad you're OK."

"You're not mad?"

"I'm annoyed. No, I'd be mad if you kissed Hudson or beat him or something like that. I shouldn't be mad. I just hope you learn from this shit and don't do it again."

I snorted and grimaced at the same time. "I wasn't _that_ wasted, honey."

"Well, I wasn't there, so I don't know!" She grabbed my arm and pulled me in the direction of the gymnasium. "Come on. People're gonna wonder where we are, and then we have to deal with the 'Are you dating?' questions again."

"Yeah, like that stopped being a thing," I muttered.

I had expected it to just be us playing basketball, but someone had dimmed the lights and put electronic dance music over the loudspeakers. Probably Hudson. No, _definitely_ Hudson. I'll bet he's also the one that made the teams shirts versus skins.

"You're on skins, Drake," Apone said when he saw me.

I sighed while removing my shirt and tossing it on the bleachers. The best thing to do was keep my mouth shut and make a feeble attempt to enjoy myself here. However, as you all know, I can be a real stinkin' pessimist, so I felt obliged to say to the rest of the team, "So, what's my job? Stand around and get hit by the ball?"

Spunkmeyer looked at Frost, who mumbled something along the lines of, "Why'd we get stuck with Drake?"

"No, man, your job is to block Vasquez whenever she has the ball," Hudson said.

That got snickers from everyone. "I don't think Drake blocks her, period," Frost said.

"Nope. He goes right in," Spunkmeyer added.

"Oh, grow the fuck up," I snapped.

"Yeah, man." Hudson turned to face both Frost and Spunkmeyer. "He's your teammate. Treat him with respect."

I rolled my eyes. "And I thought you actually wanted me here."

"Did you get your nuts snipped off, Drake? We want you here to play, not to whine," Frost replied.

"Will you leave him alone, man?" Hudson asked, calmly, at first.

"Dude, don't defend him if all he's gonna do is act like we need to treat him like he's special. We're all fucking grunts here."

"Hey, listen; I'm your team captain. If I say, leave Drake alone, then leave Drake alone."

"You both need to stop," Spunkmeyer interrupted. "This is our one chance to get outta fucking routine for a few hours, and you're wasting it by arguing. Knock it off."

 _It's all my fault,_ I thought, guilt suddenly making me feel heavy.

I decided to say nothing for the rest of the night, especially since I was looking like the team's weakest link. My mind was going in a thousand different places, but primarily to my fears about starting therapy tomorrow. Eventually, it all turned to guilt for not being able to just let my fears go and have fun. Letting go is impossible for me.

I let my guilt take over when I managed a chance to go to a small table with water bottles set up near an exit. It was tempting to just leave, but something was telling me not to. Tears dripped onto the table, and I wished I could tell myself to stop overthinking everything.

My thoughts faded abruptly when I caught the scent of infection. Without thinking, I looked over my shoulder, and my blood ran cold.

* * *

 _Question: What is scarier? The silver flower, or what you have to go through in order to be rid of its poison?_

 _Author's Note: Drake and Vasquez are my favorite OTP. Drake and Hudson are becoming my favorite BroTP, because I'm a sucker for the best-friends dynamic, even though they really didn't have that much interaction in the movie. I kinda wish there was more care placed into building a pair of friends, in any piece of fiction, to make it feel believable._

 _Also, I'm sorry this chapter is a day late. I'm hoping the schedule becomes a little more regular as time goes on._


	7. Chapter 7

Hicks definitely looked like an escaped mental patient. The bathrobe was gone, and he was standing there in his tank-top and boxers, shivering badly and sweating waves of silver. A needle-thin ring of grayish-green surrounded his dilated pupils, and he was breathing heavily through his mouth.

I glanced to my right. How did anyone not see what was going on?

Or did they just not care?

I wanted to give Hicks a chance to snap out of it. I remembered Delhoun used a spray bottle to keep Hudson under control when he was on his medicine. So, I grabbed a water from the table, unscrewed the cap, and tossed some fluid on Hicks's face.

All that did was piss him off. He lowered his shoulders, snarled at me, and charged. I bolted out the door of the gym, suddenly feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare. Despite his illness, Hicks was able to catch up to me, and came close to grabbing the back of my shirt.

I didn't want to hurt him. I really didn't. But, I didn't have a choice. When I felt the warmth of his hand near my neck, I whirled around to punch him in the stomach. Globules of silver flew from his mouth as he fell to the ground. I prayed that was the only thing I had to do. "Wake up," I muttered. "Wake up."

Hicks looked up at me. His eyes were still glowing with rage, and his teeth were bared. He scrambled to get back up, and I panicked as I tried to figure out what to do.

"Wake up!" I yelled.

Hicks tackled me, and I really regretted not having a shirt on as we slid against the metal floor. Full-blown fear and panic overtook me, and I began screaming. Every single one of my nightmares seemed to flash before me. They were so vivid, much like my silver flower flashbacks. Unlike the silver flower, though, I was actually facing the thing I've seen in my dreams.

At that point, I was certain he was going to rip out my throat.

I screamed and cried like a child. I tried to squirm out from under Hicks in order to hit him. I howled when he pressed my arms to the floor. " _Get off! Get off or kill me, dammit!_ " I shouted, tears rolling down my face. I flinched and twitched involuntarily, seeing the creature from my dreams getting ready to rake its claws down my side. " _Go ahead! Hurt me! See what I care, you fucking animal! GO AHEAD! I JUST WANT THIS FUCKING NIGHTMARE TO END!_ "

"Drake, I'm sorry."

I felt Hicks's grip loosen, and I opened my eyes to see him standing up, still shivering. He looked genuinely sorry, and shocked at the same time, as if he'd just come upon me writhing and breathing heavily on the ground.

"Drake?"

I burst into tears. I burst into the most pathetic state I could be in. Dear God, I cried hard.

Hicks helped me stand, and I stupidly hugged him. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he pulled my head close to his in order to whisper directly in my ear. "Life is not a nightmare, Drake. We all have our ups and downs. It happens to everyone. Life is worth living, OK? I'm getting you help. I promise, you will get what you need. Don't give up."

I hated feeling so vulnerable, but, now that I think about it, maybe that vulnerability was necessary to show just how much help I really needed. Maybe that's how Hicks figured out I'm suffering: I let myself become vulnerable, involuntarily. Why? I don't know. Either Hicks has ESP, or I subconsciously allowed myself to be vulnerable to let people know I needed help.

It didn't take very long for everyone else to show up. Both Hudson and Vasquez tried to get closer, but Hicks gestured for them to back off. The only person who was able to approach us was Apone, who looked us up and down before asking Hicks what happened.

"I don't . . . fully remember," Hicks replied. "One minute, I was quietly observing everything from the bleachers. The next . . ." He rubbed his face. "I attacked Drake."

"Medication?"

"Yes, sir. I . . . I scared him shitless." Hicks struggled in explaining what was going on with me. He didn't know about the nightmares; he assumed that his attack had scared me to the point of wanting to die. He assumed that he had aggravated my post-traumatic stress.

Apone tossed me my shirt. "That doctor we called is coming tomorrow. Can you hold it together till then?"

"I don't think he should be left alone for the night," Hicks said. He looked at the group of Marines gathered nearby. "Any volunteers for watch?"

Hudson and Vasquez raised their hands.

"Only two?" Hicks kept one arm around my shoulder as he turned to face everyone. "That's it?"

"Don't give us this speech again, Hicks," Frost said.

"I'm giving 'this speech again,' Frost," Hicks replied, gray-green eyes glowing with anger. "One of _your_ teammates is suffering, and you can't have the decency to help him. Only two of you give a shit? Is that what I'm getting from this? Honestly, how'd you all get through fucking boot camp if you're willing to leave one of your own out in the cold?"

"It's because I don't do anything for them," I muttered. "That's understandable. Don't . . . make them do something they don't have to do. They have their own lives, and . . . if I don't care about theirs, why should they care about mine?"

"Because it's the right thing to do-"

"Big fucking deal. If they don't want to care about me, don't make them." I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "The only thing worse than people not caring is people pretending to care."

Apone folded his arms over his chest before turning to look at the rest of the group. "Alright, people, go to your quarters. Vasquez, Hudson, you two go get warmer clothes on, then come back." As everyone left, he faced me. "Drake, I really hope you're not taking anything the wrong way."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"It's not that the rest of your unit doesn't care about you; it's that they don't know how to help you."

"My fucking behavior doesn't help."

"No, it doesn't, and I don't want to hear you arguing with Doctor Ranelli when he arrives tomorrow, you understand that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Put your shirt on, and go to your quarters." Apone paused when Hudson and Vasquez jogged over. "You two will take four-hour shifts-"

"Sir, I'll take first watch," Hicks said. "I'll do four hours. Hudson can take two, and then Vasquez'll take two."

"Hicks, you still need to rest."

"I feel fine. I'll rest in the morning."

Apone clearly didn't agree with Hicks, but also didn't want to argue with him. "Alright. Your shift starts now. Remember lights-out is at nine."

* * *

I didn't like how Hicks was getting a close look at what I do before going to sleep at night. For the first ten minutes or so, I was afraid of pulling out my journal because I didn't want him seeing my inner thoughts, but I don't think it's in his character to snoop on others' private feelings. I waited until he was focused on something else, and then took out the journal.

Hicks took a draw on a cigarette before looking upward and blowing smoke toward the ventilation shaft. After staring out the window for a few minutes, he glanced at me, noting that I was propped up with a pen and journal. "You keep a diary?"

He didn't say it in a demeaning way, but it still made me somewhat embarrassed. "Yeah," I replied. "Been doing so for a few months."

"I'd never think you were the type to do that."

"Me neither. Before we got sent to LV-400, you know, when we were stationed in South Africa, I bought two blank journals and started writing all the shit going on in my head. It's . . . become a habit to sit here at night and write everything down. There's something relieving about it, but at the same time, I feel like I've gotten worse, mentally."

"You were still pretty closed off back then," Hicks said. "Stuff like that doesn't help with improving your mental health." He looked out the window again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What did you mean when you said, 'I want this nightmare to end?'"

"Well . . . over the last few days, I . . . I've been having dreams where you-you're, you know, an animal, a monster. Like Hornby put more than he needed to in your medication. It turned you into something you're not. Every dream had the same premise; I was trying to get away, and it would usually end with you tearing into my throat."

"I forced you to relive a nightmare."

"It's not your fault. You weren't in control."

"Still. I'm sorry."

"I guess I was scared and said something I don't mean."

"I want to believe you, but we've had incidents in the past where people say that, and then . . . they're gone." Hicks pulled his cigarette out of his mouth. "It's an issue that's been around since the dawn of time, and I don't think it'll go away."

"You've seen people kill themselves?"

"More than once, yeah. This is the first unit I've been in where . . . no one's done it. Yet. I'd like to keep it that way." He glanced at the floor. "I guess that's one of the reasons I'm staying for life."

"Guilt?"

"Little bit of guilt, little bit of determination, a whole combination of things. I feel responsible for you. Honestly, it's not a very pleasant feeling. There are times where I've wanted to detach myself from all emotions and . . . not feel responsible."

"You don't want to become upset if something happened."

Hicks nodded. "I've seen recruits and officers alike die by their own hands. I can still remember walking into a banquet hall, looking up, and seeing General Paulson hanging from the ceiling. He'd used the chains from a chandelier, and it had . . . cut into his throat, and . . . I can still feel the spot where his blood had dripped on my forehead. Every time, I wonder if I could've done something to change the outcome."

"I'd want to leave," I said. "I wouldn't be able to handle it anymore."

"There've been times where I want to leave. Every single time, I end up telling myself that I'd be going home with extra baggage, shit I don't need. I should stay until I feel like I've fulfilled my role as a leader to you guys. It's a lot more than just taking you out into a combat zone or rescue task, and making sure everyone comes back safe. This job is a completely different environment compared to the civilian world. It's scary, and it effects you physically and mentally. Some of you aren't coming from good places. I may not understand what it's like to feel hopelessly alone, but that doesn't mean I can't try to help you. I didn't show it, but . . . it did hurt when you pushed me away the first time, because I felt like I wasn't trying hard enough. I really was afraid that I was gonna wake up one morning and find you in your shower with your wrists cut, or drowned in the pool, or taking a lethal amount of medication."

I think a month ago, I would've thought Hicks was making this all up. Right now, I have no doubts about him, period.

"Hudson's really worried about you, too. You don't mind I tell you about our conversation, do you?"

I shrugged. "Go ahead."

"After I was done talking to you, I got Hudson in, and he gave me the full story about your trip to Indonesia. I didn't expect him to go into detail about how badly you handled the whole thing. Apparently, some things happened that set off your PTSD, and Hudson was doing the best he could to get you out of it. Of course, I was concerned about how he'd cut himself in order to shut down the security system by getting tainted blood all over, because you don't think of stuff like that when it comes to saving another man's life."

"I don't think Hudson's suicidal."

"I don't either, but I've noticed it can be the happy-go-lucky guys that're actually hurting the worst. He cares to the point where he'd put his life on the line for you."

"I did save his life when he got stuck in that abandoned building. That probably has a lot to do with it."

"Maybe, but he's been observing you since you first got here. Everyone has, actually. I guess . . . we gave you a little too much time and leniency. You got used to being left alone, and . . . I guess you expect to be left alone or ignored by everyone now."

"That has to be changed?"

"Yes, but I don't expect you to change overnight. Do it when you start to feel like your therapy's helping you. I think getting that started is more important right now."

* * *

I managed to sleep through the night despite the fact that I was being watched. Actually, I slept _most_ through the night; Hudson watched me from midnight to two in the morning, and he can't be quiet to save his life. Of course, he brought snacks that can't be opened quietly, and one of those happened to be a bag of chips. Shortly afterward, he shook me awake in order to get permission to use my bathroom.

"Fine, but if you make a mess, I'll give you a good ol' fashioned swirlie," I grunted.

He didn't make a mess, thank God.

At two AM, Hudson was relieved by Vasquez, who quietly shut the door before crawling in bed next to me. She gently touched my face, and smiled when I opened my eyes. "Hi."

"Hi," I replied. "You're supposed to be on watch."

"I am on watch. I'm watching you."

"I meant you're supposed to be sitting by the door. What if someone walks in here-"

"No one's going to walk in here. They trust I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing." Vasquez kissed me. "You've been scaring me the last couple days, Drake."

"There's no need to be scared, honey. I'll be fine." I smirked. "You volunteered just so you could sleep with me, didn't you?"

"I volunteered because I care about you."

"And you want to sleep with me." I kissed her cheek. "It's OK. You can admit it."

"If I admit it, will you answer some questions for me?"

"Sure. Anything you want."

"What's really going on in your head right now?"

"Well . . . I . . . I'm tired, that's for sure. I'm . . . nervous about tomorrow-"

"Why?"

"I'm afraid that therapy might not work. I'm afraid that they're gonna say that I'm so broken I can't be fixed."

"I don't think that'll happen. They'll find some way to help you." Vasquez put her arms around me, hugging me tightly. "Just don't reject it, OK?"

"I won't."

"I don't want to be dealing with your problems forever."

"I don't want to be dealing with my problems, either."

We bumped noses and kissed. I pulled Vasquez closer to me, and rested my chin on top of her head. She touched my back, and slowly ran her fingers down to my hip bone. A sensual chill passed through me, and I tried to take this opportunity to stop thinking about all my problems.

* * *

In the morning, I awoke to see Hicks relieving Vasquez of her watch. She left the room, and Hicks smiled when he saw I was awake. "'Morning, Drake."

I sat up, taking note that the pain and discomfort from my hangover had faded.

"You good?"

"Yeah," I said, rubbing my face.

"Alright, here's the deal for today: get dressed, eat breakfast, and go to sick bay. Doctor Ranelli should be there by the time you're done eating. The session should be about an hour, hour-and-a-half. After that, I got a little surprise for you."

"I'm too old for shit like that."

"Never too old for surprises, Drake. Trust me, it was hard to wear Apone down for this, so, please appreciate what I'm doing for you."

"Don't you have more important things to do?"

"I'm technically on sick leave, and I have way too many days to use under my belt. I can use my time however I want, and I want to use it productively."

"Don't you still feel like crap?"

"Drake, right now, how _I_ feel is none of your business, OK? Just get up, get dressed, go down to the mess hall."

I sighed, opening a drawer to grab a clean pair of shorts and a T-shirt. "Is there anything I need to bring?"

"Nope. Only yourself."

"What're they serving for breakfast? Lemme guess, rock-hard pancakes?"

Hicks was about to reply when we both heard Hudson's familiar yell all the way down the hall. " _Hell, yeah, man! We got fucking hashbrowns this morning! And bacon!_ "

Rolling his eyes, Hicks said, "Does that answer your question?"

I nodded.

"You better hurry before he takes it all."

As I adjusted my shirt, I gave Hicks one last look before leaving the room. "Any hints about what the surprise is?"

"If I gave any hints, it wouldn't be a surprise anymore. You'll like it, I promise. Go on. You'll have a good day, Drake. Try to have that mindset today."

* * *

 _Question: Of Hicks, Hudson, and Vasquez, who is putting the most effort into helping Drake?  
_

 _Author's Note: First off, I hope everyone had a good Halloween. Sadly, I didn't see anyone dressed as a Colonial Marine where I live.  
_

 _This is definitely one of those dialogue-heavy chapters that I'm not really sure is pushing the plot forward, and there were some elements cut, like Hicks going off on a rant about no one volunteering to watch Drake for the night, and lots of fluff between Drake and Vasquez. I'll admit, I love writing conversations between them, but if it isn't helping the plot, I have to cut it. I could start working on a book purely for fluffy short stories, but I don't want that interfering too much with the main series._


	8. Chapter 8

To my surprise, the hashbrowns and bacon were actually pretty good. I'm not entirely sure why this day was picked above all others for us to have real food for breakfast. Maybe there was a budget increase, I dunno.

Hudson was trying to persuade Bishop to bring out more, but Bishop calmly kept shaking his head and saying "No," every single time Hudson said "Please?"

I looked down at my tray, losing my appetite as soon as I started thinking. I didn't want people harping on me about not eating, so I glanced at Hudson. "Here, have the rest of mine."

"Eat half, then I'll take it, man," Hudson said.

"Why? I'm not hungry."

"You do this every day, man. I'm not your garbage disposal. Dontcha think it's gonna look weird when everyone else is functioning and ready to go and you're over here looking skinny and tired?"

"Look, I start therapy today. Maybe it'll help me get my fucking appetite back."

I could tell by the look on Hudson's face that he felt sorry for me. He sighed before taking my tray, but then pushed it back. "Can't do it, man. You gotta eat, sleep, and shit just like the rest of us."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Means I don't wanna contribute to your problem, man! I take your food, so you think it's OK to just give it to me whenever you're not hungry."

"You don't need to make a big deal out of this."

"Ya need to eat, man!"

I really didn't need Hudson making a scene, so I forced myself to eat more of my breakfast, all the while glaring at him. There was a point where I decided I didn't want to push this argument further, so I got up and threw the rest of my food out, denying him any form of a second helping.

I walked by myself down to sick bay, where a medic pointed out where this therapist had arranged our meeting. I headed down a hallway until I saw a sign reading "Psych. and Trauma," which led me to a room that looked more like someone's living room than a hospital. A wide window offered a panoramic view of the Australian coastline, and, somehow, the fact that it was sunny out made me feel good.

Nervously, I looked around, wondering where I had to sit. I walked around, noticing containers full of props used for different types of therapy. In a corner was a desk, and on the desk was a clipboard and papers with my name on them. " _Drake, M. (Pvt.)_ " and my personal information had been stamped on the top of them. Below that were a number of checkboxes, all listing various mental disorders. A blue pen had made an "X" in the box next to "Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Out of curiosity, I lifted the paper, and saw the rest of the papers were mostly blank. They were documenting my course of treatment. I just hoped I didn't have to fill anything out every Goddamn time I came here.

The door opened, and a short man with steel-gray hair and hazel eyes walked in. He was wearing a dark-blue coat and black-rimmed glasses, and appeared to be mumbling to himself as he read something in a tiny notebook. After closing the door, he looked up to see me standing by one of the couches with my hands behind my back. "Ah, you're here already!" He gave me a warm smile, and held out his hand. "I'm Doctor Ranelli, and you must be Drake."

I nodded.

"Go ahead, have a seat."

"Where?"

"Anywhere you'd like. Anywhere that feels most comfortable to you." Ranelli slowly walked over to the desk, and took a hot plate and kettle out of a large drawer. "You like hot chocolate?"

"Um . . . yes?"

"Are you fine with white chocolate? That's all I have."

"Sure."

"Wonderful." Ranelli poured the contents of a water bottle into the kettle. "Tell me a little about yourself, Drake."

I frowned. "What would you like to know?"

"Anything. Start with the basics. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Pittsburgh."

"Ah. I visited Pittsburgh a few years back. Very lovely place in the fall."

He's right. Pittsburgh is lovely in the fall. I haven't seen a real autumn in years. When Ranelli turned his back to pour hot water into two cups full of a white mixture, I started choking on tears, and covered my face to hide it.

"You're homesick?"

I looked up to see Ranelli setting two steaming cups on a small table in front of me, and I was afraid to say something because of how close I was to crying.

Ranelli placed a tissue box next to my cup. "Don't be ashamed of crying, Drake. It's alright to do so here."

I swallowed past a lump in my throat before the tears began rolling down my face.

"I guess mentioning home was a bad idea?"

"No," I sobbed. "I don't consider it home anymore. I don't . . . I don't consider anywhere home."

"Not even your squadron?"

I shook my head.

"Why don't you consider them your home?"

"Outside of combat, not many of them really care about me. It's . . . It's my fault, really. I closed myself off when I came here, and everyone got used to that."

"Why did you close yourself off?"

"I don't . . . remember. It felt like a natural response. I had just gone from jail to boot camp, and . . . both were environments where . . . being happy or comfortable or warm . . . just wasn't possible. No one in either place made an attempt to care about me, so . . . I guess I assumed it was going to be the same way with my new unit."

"And has your unit been like prison or boot camp?"

"No."

Ranelli stopped there. I expected him to ask me why I haven't changed my behavior, but, he didn't. Instead, he allowed me time to enjoy my hot chocolate, and attempt to decompress. He got up and went back over to the desk, taking out a small radio, and turning on soft, relaxing music. He then sat back down, folding his hands in his lap. "How do you feel right now, at this moment?"

"Physically or mentally?"

"Both."

I sighed. "Well, I feel very tired. I feel very alone even though I have a couple of friends who have my back. I'm very nervous about . . . about how this whole therapy thing is gonna work out. I feel like . . . I might be too broken for you."

Ranelli laughed. "Do you have any idea how many times I've heard that? Plenty. Trust me, Drake, no one is too broken for me. I'll find the perfect treatment plan, and it will be explicitly tailored just for you."

I shrugged. "There're other things I'm feeling." I rubbed my face. "I just can't pinpoint 'em right now."

"That's normal. That is perfectly normal."

"Physically, though, I feel sick. I haven't had much of an appetite, but I force myself to eat because everyone around me says I have to. I haven't had the desire to eat in several days. It's on and off. When I look at the time, I never have this instinct of 'it's time to eat.' Sometimes, I just want to throw up all day."

Ranelli nodded. "Did you know that the gut is considered by some to be a second brain?"

"No, I didn't."

"Now you do. It possesses a surprising amount of neurotransmitters, and produces a lot of serotonin. That is why you generally feel a lot of emotions in that part of the body."

"It fucking sucks. I'm tired of people telling me to eat when I'm not hungry."

"Clearly, their efforts are getting the opposite of their desired results. Perhaps they should try a new approach."

"I don't want them to approach at all. Just leave me alone."

"Look at things from the other side, Drake; you need food to survive. How long do you usually go before you eat again?"

"I might eat one full meal a day."

"Consider this to be part of your treatment plan; you're lacking nutrients. Feeling better combines both mental and physical aspects. Eating the right foods contributes to your mental well-being."

"How do I get the motivation to do that?"

"We'll get there, we'll get there." Ranelli wrote something down on his clipboard. "Are you able to tell me every detail of your traumatic event?"

That question definitely caught me by surprise. I slowly set down my cup, and could feel myself sinking into my head, sinking toward my awful memories. Inwardly, I began panicking, trying to frantically get away from them. I took a deep breath, tears threatening to choke me again. "No."

"I didn't expect you to be able to."

I glanced at him, somewhat baffled. "You didn't?"

"Not at all. I can see, right now, that you don't want to go near it. You're trying to get away from it."

I pressed a tissue to my eyes, letting out my breath. "I've been trying to get away from it for the last two months. It feels like it's been way longer than that."

Ranelli nodded. "Don't feel obliged to say anything now, or anything next time. When you feel comfortable, talk about it."

"What if I never feel comfortable?"

"Write it down. In the privacy of your own room, write it all down."

A lightbulb flicked on in my head. "I actually do have it written down. It's . . . in a journal."

"Bring that journal in next time. I'm not going to read it; you're going to read what you wrote. Again, we don't have to do that next time. We'll do it whenever you feel ready. I want you to bring it just in case, alright?"

"Alright."

"Good. Until I hear your story, there's no treatment plan. I want to know the details so we can deal with this properly. Every time you come in here, I'll ask you how you're feeling. Depending on your answer, we might not do our regular plan."

"Why not?"

"Let's say, you come in and you feel unmotivated to do anything. You're angry at someone, or you have a cold or something like that. I'll spend some time getting your motivation back up, and then we'll continue your treatment, alright? Don't think this will be all business, all the time; you're officially my patient, and I want you to be able to take what you learn here and apply it to your everyday life. If we need to take a break and focus on something else, we'll take that break. I imagine you feel like . . . your post-traumatic stress is controlling you more than you control it."

"Yes. That's exactly how I feel."

"Our goal is to make sure you're in control. Being in control means being able to prevent those flashbacks from paralyzing you. Being in control means having the courage to tell others when you're seriously uncomfortable. Being in control means understanding that what happened isn't your fault. Being in control means knowing you are more than your problems."

Looking down at my boots, I nodded.

"It's completely natural to feel hopeless in the beginning. My job is to get you to feel more hopeful about what life has in store for you, to help you improve the connections between your mind and body, understand what both want, and, more importantly, what _you_ want."

I was silent for a few minutes, unsure of what to say. "When are we next meeting?"

"What's today, Sunday? What would work best for you?"

"I'd prefer it to be every day, but, I can't do that to you."

"No, no. We can meet every day, and we can make the schedule flexible. Maybe . . . we meet every day until you feel like you can manage some things on your own, and then we'll go to every other day, or twice a week, once a week, whatever you think works best."

I sighed. "And you won't cancel on me?"

"Unless something really important comes up, I won't cancel on you, and certainly not without letting you know ahead of time."

"Alright. I'll believe you. What . . . What should I do for tomorrow?"

"Nothing. I'm not giving you homework on the first day. That's silly."

I nodded, feeling a tiny bit of weight lifting off my shoulders.

* * *

As I left sick bay, I walked by the armory, and paused when I heard someone sobbing and drawing the snot back up in their nose. Cautiously, I opened the door, seeing Hudson sitting in front of a rack of pulse rifles. He was covering his face, and two sheets of paper dotted with tears were in his lap.

"What the fuck happened to you?" I asked.

Hudson gestured to the papers in his lap. It didn't take much for me to see they were from Miranda Harrison, a med student in D.C. who'd helped me during my first trip there. Needless to say, that trip was fairly eventful, and although Miranda no longer wants to date me, she did show signs of having a crush on Hudson last time we were there. They went to a baseball game together, and nothing really happened. Or, at least I think nothing happened. Hudson said he wasn't really reciprocating the feelings Miranda displayed to him, so I figured that was the end of that road. Knowing Miranda, though, she probably wanted to pursue him, and maybe even wear him down.

The letter was a lengthy description of every single thing Miranda felt after her and Hudson parted ways. She really wanted to meet him again, and talk, which I can understand; they didn't have that much time together. What I don't understand is why this was making Hudson cry.

"I don't know what to say, man," Hudson sobbed.

"You don't know what to say to me, or what to say to her?"

"What to say to her. It sounds like she really wants me, man, and I dunno how I feel 'bout that."

"If you're not feeling the same way about her, tell her. You can't be in a relationship where the feelings aren't mutual. That's how problems start."

"How do you and Vasquez do it?"

"Vasquez is not Miranda. They are two completely different people. You need to be honest with Miranda about how you feel about her."

"It's not that I don't . . . care about her, man. I do care."

"It's not wrong to care."

"When we hugged on the Metro platform, I liked it."

"You didn't kiss, did you?"

"No. Well, she kissed my cheek."

"Do you feel like you know her as a person?"

"Yeah."

"Do you feel like she knows you as a person?"

"I dunno."

"You need to get to know each other better. That's all I'm saying. Go ahead and write back to her. Tell her how you feel, and, hey, maybe you'll get a chance to see her again. She's on vacation, so, it's not entirely impossible."

Hudson sighed while drying his face with his shirt. "I gotta ask, man; how'd you figure out Vasquez is the right girl for you?"

"You'll know when you know," I said. "Love is like a fine wine. It's gotta age for it to be good. By that, I mean, it's not gonna be any good if you rush in. You have to build it, and nurture it, and not piss it off too many times. Let it go on so you can both be certain that you're perfect for each other."

"I'll give it a shot, man."

"And treat her right. Make sure you're being treated right as well." I stood up, remembering Hicks still had a "surprise" for me. "Why exactly did that letter make you cry?"

"I really haven't been in love before, man, and . . . no one's really been in love with me. I've done stupid things, but I haven't gone out with somebody and meant it. You know what I mean? I'm . . . kind of afraid of screwing up."

"It caught you by surprise?"

Hudson nodded.

"I get it. Write back and be honest, that's all." I glanced at him. "Anything else you wanna talk about?"

"No."

I shrugged, figuring he was still trying to put his thoughts together. "OK. See you around."

* * *

I had expected Hicks's surprise was on base, but I quickly found it wasn't when we headed for the gates and boarded a ferry to mainland Australia. It was tempting to ask questions, but I chose not to, knowing Hicks wasn't going to give me a straight answer.

From what I observed as we went through Brisbane, Hicks had rented a pickup for a few hours. After signing a contract that said he'd be paying for any damages to the rental, he tossed a heavy black backpack into the back of the truck, then gestured for me to get in the passenger side.

I was still confused. "Can I ask what we're doing?"

"We're doing nothing," Hicks replied.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, seriously. Gonna drive down open roads and do nothing."

We left the urban and suburban limits of Brisbane, driving down a highway that wasn't all that busy, but would be busy in the morning and evening rush hours. Hicks was quiet as the traffic became thinner and thinner, until we were the only vehicle driving down that stretch of road.

It was a really strange place for me to be, since I've been in urban areas the last several months.

"So, now that it's just the two of us," Hicks started, "How was your meeting with Doctor Ranelli?"

"It was fine. Nothing . . . spectacular. It sounds like he's gonna take care of me."

"He will. Trust me. He's a smart guy, and he knows what he's talking about."

"Does he work a lot with the Marines?"

"He's not a Marine himself, but he was contracted by the USCM ten years ago to work primarily with guys suffering from PTSD. Those aren't the only cases he's worked with, but it's his main thing."

"You've seen his work?"

Hicks paused. "I know some guys who . . . who talked to him about their issues."

That pause felt weird to me, but I decided to let it go for now. "He basically said he won't do anything until I'm comfortable. I'm just afraid that'll never happen."

"It'll happen. Give it time."

I couldn't find anything else to talk about. I mean, there was a lot to talk about for sure, but I wasn't sure it was something I wanted to discuss with Hicks. On the other hand, Hicks was bringing up random, but meaningful, topics. I would simply nod along.

Eventually, Hicks pulled into the grass on the side of the road, driving carefully until finding a spot to park. He turned the vehicle off, and then glanced at me. "We're here."

"We're where?" I looked out the window. "We're in the middle of fucking nowhere, buddy."

"Exactly." Hicks got out of the truck, using the keys to open the back, and jumped in to grab his backpack. He hopped out, closed the flatbed, and sat next to the vehicle, opening the backpack. "All I could bring were MREs, Drake, sorry."

"So, this is your surprise? A ration lunch out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yeah."

"You're not making any sense."

"I'm not supposed to. My plan is to just get you to relax, and not think about anything for a few hours."

"You could've said that before." I was actually feeling a little hungry, so I tore open the bag I was handed, and pulled out a smaller bag of the world's driest peanuts.

"Look, remember that I want to help you. Consider it an apology for not . . . not noticing sooner."

I sighed. "How do you live with your guilt without letting it drive you nuts?"

"I told myself that I really had no control over the situation. I learned to accept the fact that . . . people I knew killed themselves, and I did not kill them. I channeled that feeling into something productive."

"How, though?"

"Practice. Learning a little bit more about my own emotions and how they effect my daily life." Hicks took a sip of his water. "All stuff Doctor Ranelli's gonna teach you."

"Did you learn it from him?"

Another odd pause. "No."

"How'd you figure it out by yourself?"

"Time. Trial and error."

Something didn't feel right. It was almost like Hicks was dodging something. I didn't say anything, though, feeling that this wasn't the right time.

We sat there for a long while, letting the sun bathe us in its warmth. Hicks had his head against the side of the truck, and he breathed a contented sigh. I drew my knees up, trying to find a comfortable position to sit in. Saying and doing nothing really seemed like the best thing to do. I decided to let my body find its most relaxed place, and just stay there.

Hicks eventually dozed off, while I stared up at the sky, letting my mind wander as it pleased. I felt my heartrate slow down, and some tension went away. Here, I didn't have to worry about anything, and I wished I could stay forever.

All my problems were still in the back of my head, but, front or back, they took up a lot of space and threatened to crowd out everything else. The sigh I let out was sad instead of content.

There was a point where I dozed off as well, but I jolted awake when I heard a nasty popping, bubbling sound, similar to what I heard in my dreams when the nightmare version of Hicks was right on top of me. The relaxed feeling was gone, and I watched, listened, as Hicks breathed. His lungs were still full of mucus, probably a silver color when it was expelled. I closed my eyes again, hoping to relax again.

* * *

 _Question: It's pretty common to see debates on whether or not Hudson could have survived in "Aliens." If he did survive, how would he respond to his losses?_

 _Author's Note: I've toyed with the idea of writing a short where Hudson lives, but it's not something I'll get around to anytime soon.  
_

 _I have no plans to take part in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. I'm not a fan of the count-your-words emphasis, and I feel like they wouldn't look at the actual writing (plot, characters, etc.) itself. Someone asked me if I was doing it, and I replied that I'd much rather keep writing for the people who are enjoying the story._


	9. Chapter 9

I don't have any complaints about my day. I felt a little bit hopeful about what was next to come, and that was something I haven't felt in a long, long time. When dinner came around, I shocked everyone by eating and finishing the food in front of me, and I heard Apone mutter, "Doctor Ranelli must be a fucking magician."

I was actually convinced that I was going to go to bed in a good mood, and wake up in a good mood. Then again, those expectations are incredibly unrealistic for me.

It was while I was in the shower when my mind wandered back to the little road trip with Hicks. He had seemed to dance around questions I asked about Ranelli. He said that he simply knew guys that had been patients of Ranelli's, in a way that sorta sounded like he didn't. So, was he lying about knowing people, or . . . no, that's not possible, he would've told me.

Was Hicks himself a patient of Ranelli's?

Come on, that's absurd. Hicks would've told me. He's already opened up about a lot with me; there's no way he'd hide this, of all things.

I know I've mentioned before about how there's so much I really don't know about him. Honestly, I wouldn't care if he has some things that he wants hidden, but when he's been trusting me with a lot, and I've been trusting him with a lot, it feels like this is a one-way relationship.

Much like my relationship with Hudson used to be.

While standing in front of the sink after spitting toothpaste in it, I felt angry, but I also knew I was making assumptions based on nothing. Nothing but the tone of someone's voice.

* * *

I wanted to put my questions to rest, though. Around an hour after lights-out, I grabbed a couple of picks and headed down to sick bay. Something was telling me there was no way Ranelli would be keeping a ton of documents in his desk here, not when almost every single one of them had sensitive information stamped on them. Then again, in boot camp, the drill instructors had no issues making us recite our entire Social Security number-in front of everyone. I guess they were wholly convinced that not a single fucker in there had a good memory, and wouldn't remember the number of another person, and wouldn't take it home with him to steal their identity. I know the USCM is really tight when it comes to keeping track of everyone's numbers, but even though we tend to make fun of the guys whose job is to "play with computers all day," they're the guys every soldier is secretly afraid of. Why? They know how to disable security (without the use of blood tainted with silver flower poison), and wreck your Goddamn credit and bank account.

I'm too stupid for that. I can't even remember my own number. Oh, wait, it's on my fucking papers in the trauma ward. Never mind.

Bishop was the only person in sick bay at that hour. He was pushing a cart full of IV drip bags down the hallway to a storage room. I waited for him to pass before following him, and ducking into a different hallway leading to the psychiatry wing.

My heart was hammering against my ribcage while I stood in front of the office where Ranelli and I met earlier that day. In fact, I was afraid someone might hear it. The sound of blood pounding in my ears made me a little queasy as I stuck a pick into the lock. I slowly turned it until I heard a click, and then I breathed a sigh of relief.

Closing the door behind me, I walked into the office, glancing to my left to see the glowing skyline of Brisbane outside the window. That and the moon provided some light, but not enough for me to read anything. I flipped on the small lamp on the desk in the corner of the room, and found several drawers were left unlocked. The drawers didn't contain anything dangerous or sensitive. The locked ones probably did. Holding my breath, I picked the lock of a large drawer on the bottom right-hand side of the desk. Sure enough, it contained hundreds of documents. At least they were alphabetized.

Pulling out a heavy file with the letter "H" written on it, I placed it under the lamp and began flipping through it. There were many, many names I was not familiar with, but there was one I was definitely familiar with.

" _Hicks, D. (Cpl.)_ " was stamped on a similar document to the one I saw this morning. Instinctively, I looked down to the list of illnesses; the blue pen had made an "X" next to "Bipolar II Disorder." I then read Ranelli's notes.

" _Sgt. Trevors pretty much described the exact picture of manic depression when telling me his corporal's symptoms over the phone. He had thought that this was merely a poor handling of the recent suicide of Gen. Paulson (and indeed it is), but wasn't entirely sure if it was creating a bigger problem. Hicks was said to be alternating between severe moods; for nearly two weeks, he roused the entire squadron at one o'clock in the morning for various activities, including physical training and shooting practice. He placed rather unrealistic standards on them, and was observed to become extremely frustrated and angry if someone did not meet them. There were a couple of occasions where he resorted to violence as a punishment. Suddenly, it stopped; his mood swung to the other extreme. He refused to leave his quarters, refused food, lost a considerable amount of weight, and repeatedly claimed it was his fault that Paulson, and several other soldiers, had died.  
_

" _It was not difficult getting Hicks in to see me. I was amazed to know he seemed aware something was wrong. Our first meeting went well; he was very open about what had happened in regards to Paulson. In my opinion, that was one of the major things he needed to do to prevent this issue from getting worse. I explained that this seemed to stem from a number of factors, including a misjudgment of his mental strength against the grieving process. Overall, I'm happy this was caught early. A few weeks of psychotherapy should help this poor soul out._ "

Hicks lied to me. My heart turned to lead, and dropped into my stomach. As angry as I was, I kept looking through the documents. His treatment ended four years ago, with a happy note by Ranelli declaring Hicks to be a better-functioning individual. Why couldn't Hicks just tell me that this had happened? Was he trying to paint an image of himself for me?

I just wanted to know why.

* * *

"Can I tell you something?"

Hudson looked up at me in the gym locker room, while changing out of his PT clothes. "Sure, man."

"Can you keep your mouth shut?" I whispered.

"Of course I can. What's going on?"

I glanced around, making sure it was just the two of us. "Hicks fucking lied to me."

"'Bout what?"

"OK, let me rephrase that; he didn't tell me something that he should have."

"What, man? Hurry up, I gotta pee."

I sighed. "Can you pee and listen at the same time?" As Hudson stood at the urinal, I explained the conversation I had with Hicks the night people had to watch me. I then explained what happened on the road trip yesterday, wrapping it all up with how I found out Hicks had suffered from a form of manic depression several years ago.

"And he didn't tell you?" Hudson said.

"Not a word."

"Jesus, man. This'll put a dent between you two for sure. How're you gonna bring it up?"

"I don't know. Right now, I want to confront him, and get upset, but I know that's not gonna do anything."

"You can also get arrested for going through Ranelli's files."

"Yeah, that'll be the first thing on Hicks's mind." I rubbed my face. "I have to see Ranelli again today, so, maybe I can talk to him about it."

"Good. Hey, don't let this turn into drama, man, but I'll back you up if you need it."

"Please, don't."

* * *

I didn't bother bringing my journal because I damn well knew that my traumatic experience was not going to be the focus of my meeting with Doctor Ranelli today. He greeted me warmly, gave me a cup of coffee, and asked me how I felt. Without much warning, I exploded. I described, in detail, how Hicks lied to me and kept stuff hidden from me, despite me opening up to him. I angrily demanded to know why he can figure out that I have PTSD, but I couldn't figure out that he had bipolar.

Ranelli waited for me to calm down before giving his input. "Given that Hicks's case is four years in the past, why should it be brought up now?"

"Because he didn't tell me about it! He completely skipped over it when telling me about his own past, and he refused to tell me about it when I was talking to him about you yesterday! Why should I-"

"I'll stop you right there, Drake. How do you know Hicks doesn't want this brought up?"

"Why can he tell me what to do, but he can't fucking bring that up?! It's hypocritical!"

"His mental health is his own business. Not yours."

"Then why is _my_ mental health _his_ business?!"

"It helps him feel better. Not to mention, he's your superior."

"I'm really beyond giving a damn. I'm tired of feeling like he's trying to manipulate me."

"Manipulate you in what way?"

"Making me think that he actually cares, when . . . behind the scenes, he really doesn't."

"Well, you're the one who found his documents in my desk. He did have problems of his own, at one point in time. Believe me, he does understand how you feel, more than you realize. His previous unit was not like this one. The environment was significantly more unhealthy. General Paulson was one of the few people Hicks had to turn to."

"Who was General Paulson anyway?" I asked, my tone softening.

"Paulson was a lifer, like Hicks. He attended the USCM Academy before becoming an officer, and was eventually put in charge of your unit, and nine others. He and Hicks first met in Alabama, when Hicks was still in a recruit program. Long story short, Paulson saw Hicks through boot camp. They were friends on a personal level, but maintained a very professional relationship. I can remember Hicks telling me that much of what he knows came from Paulson."

"If they had such a good relationship, why'd Paulson kill himself?"

"No one really knows, unfortunately. He kept something to himself, and decided to take it to the grave."

"And that pushed Hicks over the edge."

"Way over the edge. The process of grieving effects everyone differently. Some people are capable of bouncing back to their regular lives after a few days. Others are completely changed, both in positive and negative ways. No one knows what truly causes the various forms of depression, but in this case, I believe a disastrous handling of the grieving process resulted in Hicks's mental downfall. With that being said, I hope you don't approach Hicks acting like this is his fault and he's in the wrong. You wouldn't like it if somebody did the same to you."

I sighed while looking down at my boots. "How do I talk to him about it?"

"Obviously, in private. Express that you're concerned. Let him know you're worried about how this effects your relationship. Don't make it a massive issue; he's already suffered once, don't make him suffer again."

* * *

I really struggling in not being upset whenever I looked in Hicks's direction throughout the day. I knew that each time I felt angry, I had to put off talking to him; I couldn't approach him like that. Then again, I had to force that anger down if I wanted to get this done and over with.

Looking back on today, I kinda feel like starting therapy created a domino effect, and I wasn't sure I liked it. Things I didn't know kept unveiling themselves to me. Were they things I'd prefer not to know? Some of them are. I don't think I should have found out Hicks once suffered from manic depression as a result of a friend committing suicide. At the same time, it explains why he's putting a lot of time and effort into just talking to me. It completely shuts down every single doubt I had about his motives. He's not doing this because the status of the squad is at stake; he's doing this because he wants to redeem himself. It may not have been his fault that Paulson died, but he wants to make sure he's capable of preventing others from doing the same.

I should be learning something from this. I keep saying that I can't achieve my own redemption. Yeah, I went to jail because I killed three people. I got a chance to redeem myself by joining the Marines. I don't feel like I've righted my wrongs. I feel guilty for not just my crime, but for every little thing that happens. Developing post-traumatic stress certainly didn't help.

What am I going to have to do to achieve my personal redemption? Is that even possible?

I don't want to ask that question right now. Not when I'm only at the beginning of a long and winding road. I need to take this one small step at a time.

Two hours after my daily session ended, I worked up the courage to find Hicks. To my luck, he was in his bedroom, finally resting. I wasn't surprised to see he looked worn out; he did push himself yesterday, and didn't get a lot of sleep the night before. Yet, he didn't tell me to leave.

 _He's trying to redeem himself._ "Hicks, can I talk to you?" I asked.

"Yeah," Hicks replied, sitting up. "Close the door."

I shut the door, and took the desk chair to sit by the bed. "Yesterday . . . I . . . I got the feeling that you weren't telling me something when we were talking about Doctor Ranelli's work. At first, I was upset, but . . . after talking to Ranelli, I . . . I know."

"What do you know?"

"I know about your manic depression."

Hicks was silent for a few minutes. He adjusted the way he was sitting in the bed, and thought long and hard, glancing at me a few times. "Drake, I'm sorry."

"Why're you sorry?"

"Because I should've told you two nights ago. I should've told you when I found out you have post-traumatic stress."

"There's no reason to be sorry. I can't . . . imagine how this feels for you."

"It feels weird, to be honest with you," Hicks said. "I put it all in the past, and I wanted to keep it there so I can move on."

I took a breath. "I didn't think it was fair that you could figure out I was suffering, but I'm kept in the dark about your problems."

"Haven't we all told you life isn't fair, Drake? You need to deal with it, and, you know what? I've done a lot for you. The least you could do is keep your nose outta my business."

"Didn't you just say-"

"I know what I just said! I said I'm sorry because I didn't know that you were going to snoop into my past! Apparently, I gotta tell you all my secrets in order to make you happy. Is that how it works? Is that how it fucking works?!"

"No, it's not how it works-"

"Then, why'd you do it? Why'd you do it, Drake? You think that just because you're suffering, you deserve to know everything."

"Hicks, that's not true-"

"Is it? I seriously don't want to deal with you right now. Don't start claiming I'm a liar when you can't appreciate a Goddamn thing people do for you. Instead of being grateful, you manipulate people into feeling bad for you. Instead of balancing that out and helping those who've helped you, you're just getting more and more selfish. That's all. Get out."

"I don't think you're listening."

"Yeah. Doesn't feel good, does it? Now you know how Hudson feels whenever you start shooting your mouth off at him. Now you know how everyone else in this Godforsaken base feels whenever you start accusing them of not caring about you."

"Can you give me a second chance?"

"You don't give anyone else a second chance. And when I say 'get out,' you get out."

* * *

No matter what, I guess that subject was something I should've never touched. It was one of those things best left in the past, and I fucked up. I fucked up big-time.

When I told Vasquez what happened, she pretty much unloaded on me, yelling at me that Hicks was right and that I need to have more empathy. I didn't bother arguing; it wasn't worth it.

Hudson practically shattered. He started off calmly, telling me that Hicks had a point, but then he burst into tears, screaming at me that Hicks had stated just about everything on his mind. Of course, Hudson added that he still felt bad, and that I could fix this if I gave an extra ounce of care.

At that point, I didn't know where else to go. Since I still wasn't allowed to leave the base for another five days because of my drunkenness, I made a phone call to Delhoun. Unfortunately, I called at a bad time; he was getting ready for his photoshoot with _National Geographic_ , and Winnie was being a pain (no surprise there), so, he had no time to talk.

I thought the day was going to continue to crash and burn when I heard someone tapping on my window sometime around nine-thirty that night. Without a doubt, it was Aran, the loner Engineer who's been helping Delhoun. I didn't say anything as he handed me his notebook, which read, " _I heard your conversation with Delhoun, so I came by to see if you needed somebody to listen._ "

I felt bad that I've been so focused on myself that I haven't really talked to Aran in awhile. He didn't seem to mind, though, and gave me a hug as I sobbed. I dumped my baggage on him, and he just sat there, nodding and occasionally patting my head. I ended my vent with the question "Am I really selfish?"

To my surprise, Aran shrugged.

"How do you not know?"

He wrote, " _You've definitely changed since we last spoke. When you visited Delhoun a few days ago, I sensed a change. You've become a lot more reserved, yet more easily annoyed. I don't want to say this, but, I think a lot of it has to do with you making yourself paranoid about having PTSD._ "

"Well, it's been confirmed I do, so . . . what's your point?"

" _My point is that you let it overrun your life. Stop. Don't drift so far away from the people that love you._ "

I didn't ask how to do that. Stopping myself from becoming unrecognizable is something I have to do on my own.

* * *

 _Question: Should Hicks have been more careful with how he spoke to Drake during their road trip to avoid suspicion? Or was Drake going to find out eventually?_

 _Author's Note: Feedback never ceases to surprise me. I'm so glad you found white hot chocolate, FoolishAliens. I love when little things like that in a chapter stick out to readers.  
_

 _These last two chapters have got to be some of the darkest things I've ever written. I've definitely shoved Drake's head underwater and haven't let him up to breathe, and I should probably let him up soon. I honestly didn't think Hicks's past was going to take up such a large chunk of the writing, but there were points that needed to be explained and dialogue that needed to be added. I can establish how Hicks is an older-brother-figure all I want, but I needed the "why."  
_

 _Also, fun fact, if you go back to "Silver Flower," Doctor Ranelli is referenced in chapter 5. I had been re-reading some of my older work when thinking of a name for Drake's therapist, and thought it'd be a good idea to take a character only mentioned and build on that._


	10. Chapter 10

It shouldn't surprise me that I was greeted with silence this morning at breakfast. The fact that everyone, and not just the people involved with yesterday's incident, was staring at me gave a horrid feeling in my gut that my life just unraveled. Everyone knew about my therapy. Everyone knew that I snooped on Hicks. Everyone knew that I'm a heartless bastard.

Apone didn't say anything as he pointed in the direction of sick bay. I was confused until I saw Ranelli appear at the end of the hallway. At least he seemed happy to see me; he waved me over with a smile on my face, and, honestly, I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"We're going to start a little early today. Hope you don't mind," Ranelli said, after closing the door to his office.

"I really don't care," I replied, sitting on the couch.

"Why don't you care?"

"Did you not see everyone out there-"

"Oh, I did. And I know about what happened yesterday." Ranelli went over to his desk, checking on his kettle. "You prefer cinnamon, sugar, or both in your oatmeal?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Alright. Let's talk about what happened yesterday."

"What's there to talk about? I fucked up. I fucked up to the point where no one's gonna forgive me." I clenched my fists. "No one should forgive me."

Ranelli sat across from me. Just in case I wanted it, he put a small serving of oatmeal in front of me. "Do the bad things about you outweigh the good?"

"Yes. I haven't . . . done any good things."

"I don't think that's true. You've probably done more good things than you think you've done. The thing with PTSD and depressive illnesses is that they blow your negative emotions out of proportion. They're heavier than positive emotions. They weigh you down, and that's why it's difficult to manage them. Your positive emotions may feel like a balloon-light and airy. But, that balloon is tied to a rock. That rock is your negative emotions. You have to cut that balloon from the rock, or, you can add more balloons."

"No amount of balloons could lift a rock."

"That's actually not true, Drake. If you get enough balloons, you can lift a rock." Ranelli added some sugar to his coffee, and began stirring it. "Dig back into your mind; what is the last thing you did that would be considered good?"

"I . . . comforted Hudson when he was upset. He was crying his eyes out in the armory, and I sat with him till he stopped, and talked to him about what was going on."

"Did he appreciate your company?"

"Yeah." I thought for a moment. "All this is confidential, right?"

"Largely, yes. I won't tell anyone about the details of our conversations, but I do have to report on your treatment."

"So . . . you won't tell anyone . . . that I'm dating someone here?"

"Not a soul."

"OK. Um, yesterday, after I left our meeting, I found Vasquez-my girlfriend-in the hallway by the firing range, and I gave her a shoulder massage. She said she needed it, and I said that if I ever had the chance, I'd get her the best day at the best spa in the world." I weakly smiled, looking down at the floor. "She means the world to me. We . . . There's so much we want to do together, and . . . I don't want to be like this if I ever get out with her." Rubbing my face, I sighed, holding back tears. "Sorry. Other good things I've done . . . I took Hudson out for drinks so we could just talk. I got drunk, but, that's beside the point."

"The point I'm trying to make is this: you are not selfish. Don't convince yourself of that. Every human being is selfish in their own right. We have to be. Caring for the self is as important as caring for others, and many struggle with it on both ends. Some care too little for themselves, and believe any form of self-care to be wrong. I've seen the worst of that; they are depressed, hopeless, confused, financially unstable, and, unknowingly, enslaved by the idea that their only purpose in life is to serve others. You are neither completely selfish, or completely selfless. You have that balance, but you need to maintain it before it becomes unbalanced. Don't force yourself to care about others if you don't believe they care about you. Your girlfriend, for example, is someone you can give a little extra care for. Hudson is another good idea. Hicks . . . Hicks will be a challenge, but he's not a bad idea."

"I'm not convinced Hicks even wants to look at me right now."

"Hicks is not one to hold grudges. He's generally in control of his emotions, but, I know right now he's taking some kind of medicine that does have mood-altering properties."

"He could become violent without warning," I said.

"Ah. When you say 'violent,' you mean-"

"It's a pill that's supposed to flush silver flower poison from his body. It uses Annexer hormones to force him to sweat, but it can make him behave in the aggressive fashion of that animal. Hudson had the same thing. It only happens if they get highly stressed, or feel threatened." I thought back to the night where Hicks stalked and attacked me outside the gymnasium. "They'll act like animals."

Ranelli nodded, looking a little concerned. "That's definitely interesting."

"You'd have to talk to Delhoun or Hornby about it. They know a lot more than I do."

"Rykell Delhoun? I know him. He's . . . He's a gentleman, but he's also a bit odd. I met Hornby at a conference up in Tokyo. Very smart, but can get caught up in his work too quickly. He actually went to the same college I did."

"I noticed he got easily caught up in his work when he experimented on Hudson."

"The silver flower itself is interesting, nonetheless. I do understand that is a dominating factor in your trauma."

I nodded.

"How do you feel about talking about your full experience?"

"I'm . . . not ready. Tomorrow, I think I should do it. I'll bring in my journal and read from it."

"Are you absolutely sure? I won't be upset if you end up changing your mind last minute."

"I'm sure. I want to get somewhere with this, and sitting on it isn't helping."

* * *

I found Hudson in the laundry room when I left my session. Without much of a thought, I said, "I can finish that for you."

Hudson didn't respond at first. A few minutes later, he replied, "I dunno, man."

"Come on. I haven't been _that_ much of a dick, have I?"

"Well, you know what? I shoulda said something when you told me what you found about Hicks. I shoulda told you not to say anything. You don't like it whenever people bring up your past or say something that sets off memories, so, why should you do that to Hicks? It makes no sense, man."

"I know. I shouldn't have done that."

"I still think he cares about you, deep down. He just didn't expect that to happen. Who knows? Maybe you two can bond over having a mood problem-Hey! My missing sock!" Hudson grinned as he pulled a badly wrinkled sock out of the washing machine. "Been looking all over for this little booger." He tossed the sock in the dryer, and looked back up at me. "Look, man, don't . . . focus too hard on anything. I know you feel like way too much has changed because of your therapy. I know you didn't want it at first."

"That's changed. I really like Doctor Ranelli. He seems to honestly understand what I'm going through and what I need to do to heal."

"You needed that a long time ago, man. This problem coulda been fixed right after you came back from the orbital hospital two months ago."

"Well, I didn't have any issues right after I came back. It . . . It waited until something set it off." I sighed, feeling tears choking me again. "Even when shit hit the fan, I didn't want to tell anyone. I was afraid of getting kicked out." The tears began rolling down my face. God, I really hate how all I've been doing is crying for the last three or four days.

Hudson closed the dryer before giving me a tight embrace. "Hey, it's OK, man. You're getting help now, and that's all that matters." He patted my back. "You'll get better, man, try to stay strong."

For all I've done . . . and he still cares. I've never felt my stomach knot up so fast before. I squeezed Hudson hard, and began whispering, "Thank you," over and over again.

"Thanks for what?"

"For everything you've done over the last few months." I was squeezing him so hard, I could feel his heartbeat. "I haven't thanked you for anything, and I should have a long time ago."

"A simple 'thanks' would do, man, but I like you're going the extra mile," Hudson grunted. "You're hurting my back, man, you can let go now."

* * *

Vasquez wasn't as impressed as Hudson was when it came to my display of emotions. She accepted my apology, and my "thanks" for all the things she's ever done for me, but she told me that if I started crying, we wouldn't sleep together tonight.

I forced myself not to cry, so we were snuggled up in her bed shortly after lights-out.

I wasn't ready to talk to Hicks, and he wasn't ready to talk to me. After lunch, I overheard him in Apone's office, talking about me.

"I really don't want to be mad at him," Hicks was saying. "I . . . honestly didn't mean half the shit I said yesterday to him."

"He still did something he shouldn't have done. You have every right to be angry," Apone replied.

"Do I? I would if I didn't put so much effort into getting help for him. I would if I didn't tell him too much in the first place. I shouldn't have told him about . . ." Hicks took a breath, and swallowed past a lump in his throat, "about Paulson. I shouldn't have gone into so much detail about why I'm staying in for the rest of my life."

"Let me ask you something, Hicks; if you didn't make Drake comfortable with you, comfortable enough to open up about what's going on, do you think any of us would've figured it out?"

"Hudson knew."

"And Hudson wouldn't have said a Goddamn thing. He and Drake are kinda tight-knit, you know. If Drake told Hudson not to say anything, the fool ain't gonna say anything unless you dangle a box of fucking Oreos in front of him. What I'm trying to ask is, what would've happened if Drake still didn't fully trust you?"

"He would've said something eventually."

"No. We would've gotten everyone up for chow one morning. Everyone but Drake would show, and one of us would go in his room, assuming he's still lounging in bed. Instead, we find him in his bathroom, with his wrists cut, or overdosed on medicine. Think about it for a minute. You've seen both. Do you want to see it again?"

Hicks drew in a breath. "No."

"You don't want him ending up like Paulson, or any of the other guys you've seen. Think of it this way: you didn't have a choice. It's either get him help, or be the one stepping in a giant puddle of blood that's starting to spill out of the bathroom."

"Did I have to expose my past in the process, though?"

"Do you not trust Drake? You think letting him know that you don't trust him is gonna help?"

Hicks fell silent. "No, I don't think that would help. I understand what you're saying, but I'm not ready to talk to him yet. Not . . . Not today. I'm sorry."

"Well, take your time. This hit you outta left field, didn't it?"

"Came way outta left field."

"I get it. Try not to wait too long. God only knows what's running through Drake's head right now."

Their conversation was still replaying in my head as I got into bed with Vasquez. She smiled up at me as I set my bone necklace and dogtags on her nightstand. "You wanna earn your cuddles?"

I sighed. "Why do you always ask whenever I don't bring protection?"

"You know I have extra in my bathroom, right?"

"I'm really not up for it, to be honest with you."

"Well, I'm not up for you turning into a sobbing mess. We should do something other than talk."

"Well, if we weren't on a fucking base, and if we were in our own fucking house, with our own fucking rules, we could do something other than talk. We could see a movie, or go somewhere, or play with a pet, or read a book. Anything other than talk and have sex."

Vasquez sighed. "Wow. You didn't have to get upset, Drake. You really didn't."

I took a moment to think. "I'm sorry. Really, I'm . . . I'm sorry. I'm tired, OK? Today was just . . . I don't know. No, the last few days have just been dragging out and I don't want tomorrow to be the same."

"Stop whining about it and go apologize to Hicks. It's not that hard."

"I don't think you get it. It's hard. Hicks doesn't want to talk to me right now, and I don't know if he's gonna want to talk to me tomorrow."

"Yeah. You don't know that. Hicks could want to talk to you tomorrow, so, don't assume that he's not going to want to talk to you. Just let things happen and stop trying to be in control of everything."

"I've never been in control, though. I _want_ to have control over something."

"You do. You have control over yourself."

"I don't feel like I do."

"You do. You'll learn that eventually." Vasquez pulled herself closer to me. "Can you save it for your therapist and enjoying spending time here? Please? This is getting old."

* * *

There was a part of me that wanted to start having my sessions with Ranelli at an earlier time, purely because he provided real food. If my appetite is going to regulate, I'd rather eat something that wasn't in powder form ten minutes ago. Seriously, I can't remember the last time I had real eggs.

The downside would be having everyone else look at me as a snob. I don't want that.

At one point, Apone stood up and announced that tomorrow was going to be the start of our yearly CPR training in order to keep our certificates up-to-date. It's just two days of us in the gymnasium with dolls that will let you know if you're doing it wrong in the scariest way possible.

My training last year was no problem. This year . . . it might be a little different. Having had CPR performed on me, and observing Delhoun perform CPR on Hudson, I don't know if this is going to give me flashbacks.

It wasn't just that, though; we relearn the entirety of our first aid lessons. That includes everything from CPR to tourniquets and the Heimlich maneuver to stabilizing a broken bone. Considering the silver flower is a new thing, I don't know if that will be included in our poisoning lesson.

I hope it's not. I'm not ready for that yet.

After finishing half my breakfast, I dumped my tray and headed back to my room in order to grab my journal. I want my treatment to start, so Ranelli needs to know the full story of what happened on the orbital hospital station. I hoped and prayed I didn't get trapped in those horrid memories. I hoped I could just read the story and move on. I hoped this really was the start of a better journey for me.

But, that feels like too much for me to ask.

Ranelli had me sit on the couch in whatever position I felt most comfortable in. He gave me a steaming mug of herbal tea to help me relax, and got out his little radio with the calming music. There was a full ten minutes of silence as I opened my journal and prepared myself. Finally, though, I took a deep breath, and started to read the three weeks' worth of entries from my stay on that station.

I won't lie; I had to stop and collect myself a few times. Ranelli didn't say a word. He didn't rush me along, or try to coax me into continuing when I clearly needed to stop. It took a good two hours before I finished reading my experience, and when I set the book down, I grabbed some tissues to cover my face and cry.

"When you suffer a flashback, what parts of your experience replay in your mind?" Ranelli asked.

"The choking sensation," I replied. "The feeling of the defibrillators being slammed on my chest. The voices of the doctors that were working on me. The . . . The sound of the glass shattering when Delhoun busted into the lab to get me out."

I was also able to explain what had happened with Hudson, and how running into the abandoned building to save him has become a flashback and a frequent nightmare. The topic turned to my nightmares as a whole, and Ranelli wasn't at all surprised to learn that all my nightmares had similar scenarios. He also wasn't surprised to learn that I'm scared to death of the silver flower, and that I can't be near it without suffering a panic attack.

After writing down some notes, Ranelli looked at me. "Alright. From what you've told me, here is what I believe will be the best course of treatment for you. I want to try a combination of two different types of therapy, one being cognitive processing, and the other being prolonged exposure. Cognitive processing will help with dealing with, or even changing, your thoughts on what happened, and what has happened since then. Its basic goal is to allow you to accept what happened, and manage your thoughts. In fact, we've already been doing a little bit of that every day. Prolonged exposure will deal with your anxiety. It will teach you how to confront everything that has been making you upset, or anxious, or just plain scared out of your pants. Keep in mind that it will involve me bringing a live silver flower to some of our sessions later on down the road. It'll be in a stasis tube, so, it's not going to hurt you. The purpose is to get you to a point where you are able to be around it without suffering. I imagine it's not just the flower, though; there are other things-thoughts, scenarios, maybe even places-that make you uncomfortable."

I nodded.

"Right. Tomorrow, we're going to talk about your thoughts. How do you see yourself, and how do you see the people around you. What has been the most common thing on your mind since your traumatic event, and how has it effected various things that've happened since then as well. Sound like a plan?"

"Yes. Sounds like a plan."

"Good." Ranelli shook my hand when I got up to leave. Before I put my hand on the doorknob, he said, "I believe Hicks is by the outdoor firing range. I saw him out there earlier. Perhaps this would be a good time to have a chat with him about what occurred two days ago."

* * *

 _Question: Would Drake's behavior in "Aliens" be different if he didn't get therapy? Or would there be no noticeable change simply because we're not following his character in the movie?_

 _Author's Note: I made up the "add more balloons" philosophy on the fly, but, I'm starting to like it as something that can be applied to real life.  
_

 _Once again, comedic/tension-relief moments were lacking here. Timing is everything, though, and the most I could get was Hudson finding his missing sock. I'm starting to think the forthcoming Christmas special won't be as dark as I hoped it was, but it won't be sappy either._


	11. Chapter 11

I've heard the phrase "everything happens for a reason" since I was little. Even the shittiest things that happen have some kind of meaning, because I guess it's a way of prepping you for something good to happen.

The rest of that day was relatively average. Although Ranelli told me to go talk to Hicks in the outdoor firing range, Hicks really wasn't interested. He was pacing the long length of the range with a lit cigarette in his mouth, and he looked depressed. I can't blame him, considering the conversation I overheard last night. The look he gave me was the same look a parent gives their kid when the kid did something questionable-"I still care about you, but I'm not happy with you right now." Thinking about that analogy really pierced my heart, because, yeah, I've disappointed my parents. God only knows what they're thinking right now.

Instead of pushing Hicks, I left him alone. That was the best thing to do.

I had laundry duty after lunch. When I finished loading everyone's clothes in the washers and dryers, I found a spot next to one of the dryers, in a corner, and curled up on the giant laundry bags. The dryers give off a lot of heat, so it was warm and comfortable in that little area, allowing me to take a nap.

I'm not sure how much time passed, but I know the awkward position my head was in made me start snoring, so it wouldn't be a secret for very long that I was sleeping in the laundry room. In fact, I got the feeling someone was standing over me, and I assumed it was Hudson. When I opened my eyes, I found I was wrong. Dropship pilot Ferro was glancing at me while going through a basket of freshly dried clothes.

"You know, I kinda need new PT gear for tomorrow, Drake," she said. "I shoulda got that an hour ago."

"At least your clothes are fucking dry," I groaned. "Do I get a thank-you?"

"Fine. Thank you for doing the laundry."

"You're welcome. That's all I wanted." I adjusted myself before closing my eyes again, and covering them with my cap.

There was quiet for a few minutes before Ferro gave a sigh, and said, "Drake?"

"What?"

"Do you really think . . . we're all dicks to you?"

"No. I think _I'm_ a dick to _you_."

Ferro struggled for a moment to think of a response. "You kinda are, but, hey, we're on the same team, so . . . it's not like anyone thinks you're a bad guy. I dunno. I guess I just don't know you that well, aside from what I see when we're at work."

"Yeah, you got a point." I smirked. "I don't know you all that well, either. Other than you fly us places, and you work with Spunkmeyer."

"That's all you know?" Ferro shook her head. "Fair's fair. I only know you're a smartgunner, you came from prison, and you're getting therapy for something."

"PTSD," I said. "I'm getting therapy for PTSD." I frowned. "Wait, how'd you know?"

"Doctor Ranelli's kinda known for that thing. Plus, word did get around about you and Hicks."

"Of course." I sighed. "We need more shit to do. Everyone's starting to look to everyone else's secrets for entertainment."

"Well, you know how everyone thinks you and Vasquez are a thing? People used to think me and Spunkmeyer were dating."

I snorted. "Really? Come on, Spunkmeyer's a certifiable virgin for life."

"Um, yeah, he's also probably not as old as he says he is. Someone floated a rumor that says Spunkmeyer was underage when he enlisted, so . . . none of us actually know how old he is."

"And it'd probably kill him if someone brought it up."

"Definitely. Apone and Hicks'll go nuts. No, I haven't dated Spunkmeyer, and I don't want to if I have no idea how old he is. Good Lord, imagine if he's not even eighteen. That's . . . That's wrong."

I grinned. "He's gotta be past eighteen by now."

Ferro nodded. "Still, there's a chance he's not, so I'm not taking that risk." She looked at me. "How old are you, Drake?"

"Honest answer?"

"Yes."

"Twenty-two. Twenty-three in a few months."

"I thought you were a lot younger. You were conscripted from juvie, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Either go in the military and have your sentence terminated, or stay in prison for the rest of your life." I sighed. "It wasn't a hard decision, but . . . I don't feel like I've redeemed myself."

"What's it like?"

"What's what like? Prison?"

"No. PTSD." Ferro paused, her hands on the laundry basket. "I'm not asking to be mean, I'm just . . . curious, that's all. I hear a lot about it, but I don't _know_ much about it."

"Well, the short answer is that it fucking sucks. Imagine minding your own business, and suddenly, you start experiencing that traumatizing event. You're physically here, but mentally, you're somewhere else. You're back in that place you don't wanna go ever again. Every feeling you had while being traumatized bleeds into your everyday life. You look at yourself and everyone around you a little differently. Teeny-tiny things that shouldn't have anything to do with your trauma-a sound, an object, a bodily sensation-set off your memory. There're moments where . . . you don't want to be stuck in that cycle. Your sleep is plagued with nightmares. Silence becomes a toxic breeding ground for your thoughts. You get what I'm saying?"

"I get the gist of it, yeah."

"So . . . now you understand . . . a little bit of why I am the way I am?"

"Emphasis on 'little.' I guess it explains why you explode sometimes."

"A lot of stuff can get built up in just an hour, and then it continues to build over a day. I don't release it, so, it continues to build up over the next several days." I sighed. "More often than not, it's over things that I don't want to talk about with anyone, but I need to talk about it, or else it's gonna fester and any little thing will piss me off."

Ferro shrugged. "Hey, I wouldn't be annoyed if you came to me and said you needed to talk. We don't do anything around here anyway."

I was going to say something about how I don't trust her all that well, but I chose not to. Building a bond with her was more important, especially now. "I'll keep that in mind," I replied.

There was more silence for about a minute as Ferro pulled a shirt and shorts from the basket. She turned to leave, but then stopped, going back to face me. "Drake?"

"What?"

"Are you . . . OK here, or would you rather go somewhere else?"

"I'm alright here," I said. "Thanks for the concern."

"Do you want anything? Hudson raided the officer's lounge a few hours ago and brought back enough snacks for everyone."

"What I need is a good stiff drink. Not enough to get wasted, but enough to relax for a couple hours. Did he find that vault of scotch everyone talks about?"

"Oh, he's not smart enough for that."

"No, but he could stumble on it by accident."

"Come on, you know Hudson's a fucking beer guzzler. Can't appreciate the finer things in life."

I smirked. "True. But, he knows how to be a good friend. I'd trust him with something before I trust me."

"That's . . . a bit of a stretch, and there's no need to be so hard on yourself."

"You'd be singing a different tune if you were in my head."

The look on Ferro's face told me she'd run out of things to say at the moment. I was pretty sure she would approach me later, maybe with something more solid, but that didn't happen. She left me alone in the laundry room, and I decided that was a good time to grab the rest of the clothes and hand them out to everyone.

* * *

My chat with Ferro was the only thing worth mentioning about yesterday. It actually felt good to talk with someone I didn't know all that well, and try to give them a better image of what they already have. I don't think my relationship with Ferro will go beyond what we established yesterday, but at least she doesn't think I'm a terrible human being.

Today was our CPR training. I had my session with Ranelli put off for an hour, and I was OK with that. After breakfast, we went into the gymnasium, where Bishop had set up all these doll torsos for us to practice on.

"Hey, it's Jimmy!" Hudson knelt by one of the dolls. "How're you doing, Jimmy?"

"Jimmy" says some pretty fucked-up shit when you're not performing CPR correctly. He comments on where your hands on, how much pressure you're applying, and will cry about how much pain you're inflicting on him. Rumor has it that he's actually a deactivated android that never had its cognitive processor successfully removed, but that's just creepy.

I wasn't focusing on whether or not Jimmy was going to tell Hudson that his hands were cold and that he'd rather die if Hudson can't get his technique right. No, you pretty much know where my mind is by now.

While Apone gave us a demonstration, I could feel invisible compressions against my own chest. _It's just your imagination. You're fine. Everything's fine. Stop thinking about it._ I took a deep breath, and looked down at the doll in front of me.

I couldn't get any of those memories out of my head. Instead of the emotionless plastic face of the doll, I saw Hudson, wide-eyed, turning purple, saliva running from his mouth. He was grabbing at his throat, and convulsing. Delhoun wasn't there, so I began the compressions. This wouldn't be enough. Hudson needed a hospital. I pressed down harder and quicker. He was still shivering violently, awful hacking sounds coming from his throat. "Come on . . . come on . . ." I moaned. "Please, Hudson, no . . ."

I would later learn that people were staring at me for the majority of my little episode. Hudson, especially. He was tempted to stop me, but someone told him not to. His look could be described in one word: powerless.

Meanwhile, I was trying to "save" him. I continued to perform the compressions on the doll, unable to hear the three beeps that let you know you saved someone's life. I was stuck, convinced I was watching my friend die. "Hudson, please, no!" The tears began rolling down my face, and I started panicking.

The vision eventually faded, but it took some time before the parts of my brain caught up with one another. I was still panicking when I felt someone lift me from the floor, and walk me out of the gym.

After making sure the doors were closed, Hicks turned to face me. I was breathing hard, my fists were clenched, and I was unsure of where I was. Hicks looked calm, and waited a few seconds before saying, "Drake, Hudson's OK. You saved his life, alright? He got the help he needed, and he's OK."

The panic slowly began melting away. I realized where I was, and began putting together what just happened. When the majority of my brain caught up with itself, I said, "My God, I just blew up in front of everyone."

"And it's not your fault." Hicks grabbed my shoulders. "It's not your fault. Everything's OK. No one got hurt. No one looked at you funny. Everything's OK, I promise."

My face was still red with embarrassment. I felt weak, and sank to the floor, trying to breathe more evenly. Hicks sat across from me, looking down at his lap before making eye contact with me. "You listening?"

I took another deep breath. "Yes."

Hicks closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm very, very sorry. I should've handled you telling me that you found out about my illness better."

"Apology accepted."

"Trust me, I know how it feels to lose sense of reality, temporarily. I know how it feels to act out on an impulse I can't control. I know how it feels to be stuck. I shouldn't . . . I shouldn't be dismissing you at all. The last thing you need right now is someone pushing you away. I don't want you feeling worthless and alone. I've felt worthless and alone. You know by now that I felt responsible for so many people taking their own lives." Hicks looked down again, swallowing past a lump in his throat as a fresh tear dripped down his cheek. "I'm better than this, Drake. I should be watching out for you. Instead, I'm cowering from my own past."

I still feel bad that I opened up all these old wounds for Hicks, but I guess it was important in order for things to be better for both of us in the long run. I wish I didn't have to break him, though.

We were both on the same level, now. The weakness I felt earlier had gradually faded, but it wasn't giving way to a more positive feeling. I'm used to feeling this way. Hicks isn't, so he wasn't handling it all that well. Being physically battered from his illness didn't help, and for that, I simply wanted to help him stand and escort him to his bedroom for some much-needed rest.

He tried to push through the chaos beneath his surface. I imagine he was thinking that his apology to me would have gone a little smoother, but I also wonder why he felt now was a good time. Did he know that CPR training would set me off, and did he take advantage of me being so vulnerable to connect with me and truly let me know he was sorry? Was it a spur-of-the-moment decision because he saw how bad I was suffering and wanted to help?

Maybe I should stop overthinking this. That's what got me in trouble the first time. He did the right thing, and that's all that should really matter.

* * *

Updating my CPR certificate was still something I had to do over the next two days. Instead of training in the gym with everybody else, I did it in Ranelli's office. If I started panicking, he'd stop me, let me relax, and have me try again. Despite Ranelli completely controlling the environment, the first panic attack I had in there was just as bad as the one in the gym, so Ranelli tried something different. As I made the compressions on the plastic doll, Ranelli had me focus on a recording of someone tapping a bell. Every time they tapped the bell, I'd make a compression. He wanted me to focus on the bell rather than the compressions themselves.

The first time he tried the bell recording, I was able to stay focused for almost thirty seconds before I started seeing Hudson's face again. However, as my attack progressed, I was seeing Hicks. My guess is that my mind was still thinking about our reconciliation, about the things in the past that have involved both of us. It was strange because Hicks didn't need to be revived when he was poisoned.

Much like my nightmares where he's a rabid animal, it's probably just another fear I have.

I wasn't hearing the bell. I was hearing Hicks's breathing.

Ranelli stopped the recording. "That's enough." He pulled me away from the practice doll, helping me sit on the couch. I was in tears, so he gave me a box of tissues, and waited for me to settle down. Once I did, he put the practice doll in a box, and said, "You may have to wait before you can recertify for CPR. This is clearly very upsetting for you at the moment, and you need to train yourself in closing out those thoughts and flashbacks before you even attempt this. I'm sorry."

"I can't just stop!" I wailed. "I have to do this!"

"No, you don't. Not right now. I can give you more time. You need to go through your therapy before you try this again. Repeat after me: 'I need to stop.'"

I took a breath. "I need to stop."

"'I need to get better before I move on.'"

"I need to get better before I move on."

"'This does not mean I am weak.'"

"This does not mean I'm weak."

"'It is a challenge that I must overcome.'"

"It is a challenge that I must overcome."

"Good. Let Sergeant Apone know that you won't be attending the training tomorrow, nor the test. I'll be down in a few minutes with your delay papers."

I nervously got up, leaving sick bay to do what Ranelli told me. At this point, I wasn't afraid of what Apone might say to me; I was afraid that everyone would look at me strange for being the only person in the base not recertified for CPR.

OK, that may've sounded silly. I guess I should've written, "I'm afraid that people are going to accuse me of using my PTSD as an excuse to get out of various activities." That sounds more reasonable to say.

I really hope nobody thinks that, and I really hope my experience with Ferro would be the start of something better for me. I hope she tries to put in a good word for me, makes me look better to everyone else. Then again, you're probably shaking your head and thinking that this is way too much for me to ask.

* * *

 _Question: Given Drake's past experience with the other Marines, should he be cautious around them, or embrace the fact that some are trying to help him?_

 _Author's Note: I didn't know the Ferro/Spunkmeyer ship existed until a few days ago, not gonna lie. However, I did know about the rumor regarding Spunkmeyer's age when he enlisted, so, yeah, God only knows how old he really is.  
_

 _I'm sorry this chapter is being published later than normal. I had writer's block when it came to wrapping up Hicks's apology, so, I'd appreciate you letting me know if the scene feels off or incomplete._


	12. Chapter 12

Apone didn't offer up any argument when I told him that I couldn't recertify in CPR at this time. In fact, he wished me luck in my therapy, and said I could talk to him anytime I wished.

I'm finding that the more people I talk to, the better they understand me. At the same time, there's still a lot they don't know, and I'm not sure I'm ready to open up yet.

That night was the first time since yesterday that Ferro talked to me, and I could tell Vasquez was a little confused. Ferro sat across from us at the dinner table, asking me how I was doing. I described, with minimal detail, about what happened in the gym, and in Ranelli's office.

The conversation didn't last very long, as Hudson strolled over and plopped down next to Ferro, a hunk of dry garlic bread clenched in his teeth. He seemed really happy about the fact that we were having chicken alfredo for dinner-until he took a bite and found it was whole-wheat linguine.

"Well, I got excited for nothing, man," he mumbled. "Between this and the garlic bread, I won't be able to shit for two days."

"We don't need to know," I replied.

It took Hudson a moment to realize Ferro was with us. He glanced at her and said, "Don't you usually sit on the other side of the table?"

"Is it wrong that I came to talk to Drake?" Ferro asked.

"No. What're you talking about?"

"What happened in the gym," I said.

Hudson paused his chewing. "Oh. Yeah, I . . . I wanted to do something, man, but Hicks said not to. Something about not wanting you to get spooked when you snapped out of it."

"Guess that makes sense," Ferro replied.

"Well, part of it was because Hicks wanted to talk to me and apologize," I said.

"Wait, _Hicks_ apologized? I thought you had to apologize."

"We both apologized. Had to. Hicks made some mistakes, too."

"Ah." Ferro glanced down at her tray, then back up at me. "So, Drake, are you free Friday night?"

Hudson promptly spit his water all over the table, and I started choking on my garlic bread. Vasquez got behind me and started driving her fist into the upper part of my belly. The chunk of bread flew out, landing in a puddle of Hudson's water, creating a gross, wet mass. Coughing, I said, "What?! Friday night . . . I . . . _me?!_ Oh, no. No, no, this's gotta be a joke."

"Not like it's a date. I think it was nice we got to talk yesterday, and maybe it'd be better that we get to know each other in a more relaxed place."

Hudson snorted. "That's a date, man." He grabbed a napkin to clean up his mess. "Admit it; you like Drake."

"As a friend."

"Nuh-uh, you wanna _really_ get to know him, dontcha?"

"Hudson, shut the fuck up," Vasquez hissed.

"What? I'm just goofing around-ow! Don't kick me, man!"

"You're being a dick."

"Yeah, you're not involved with the decision-making process here, Hudson," I said. "Look . . . Ferro . . . we can go somewhere, if you want, but . . . just know that I'm not looking for any romantic relationship. I'm all for going as friends."

"That was my plan," Ferro said.

"OK. Sounds great. We'll get passes and go to a bar."

* * *

You can imagine Vasquez wasn't very happy. I reminded her that I wasn't going to announce to everyone that we were dating, and I wanted to improve my relationship with the rest of the unit. I concluded my argument by stripping down to my underwear.

"Considering your little outburst from a few nights ago, I don't know if I'm up for it," Vasquez said while getting in bed.

"Yes, you are. You're thinking, 'oh, wow, Drake's up for it, finally.'"

"Am I? You're a dumbass, sometimes." She still pulled the covers back for me. "You know, this isn't the only way to prove you love me, right?"

"I know," I replied. "Have I been faltering in saying 'I love you' every single day?"

"Actually, yes, you have. I didn't get one yesterday."

"Consider this to make up for it."

"You can try harder than that."

"I love you, too."

I've heard that you're really not supposed to let your mind wander mid-act, because your partner will notice. Vasquez is used to my mind wandering off at all hours of the day, so, she generally doesn't care if it goes off on its own stupid path while we're busy. Does it make for a poor finish? Sure, but neither of us care. Anyway, my mind had wandered off to Ferro and how I'm going to convey to her that I don't want a romantic relationship while not hinting at the fact that I'm actively in a romantic relationship. I could make up an elaborate story and get poor Miranda involved, since we "dated." On paper, it sounds like a good idea, but I know that could really hurt Miranda, and especially Vasquez, because people will talk.

Not to mention Hudson. I know I haven't really written about his little dilemma regarding Miranda, but it was something that crossed my mind that night. He did write back to her, as far as I know, and received a reply this morning. Judging by the letter, Miranda seems to be understanding of how Hudson feels, but she still wants to give it a shot with dating him, despite the fact that they are thousands of miles apart. My guess is that they're going to stick to letters for now, and I hope they can physically meet again in a few months once the holidays arrive and we all get a little more freedom.

When we were done, we lay next to each other, smiling. It's pretty rare to see Vasquez smile, so it makes me happy knowing I'm capable of making her happy. "That wasn't so bad," I said.

"No, it wasn't," Vasquez replied, moving closer to me. "You did good, Drake."

"Even though I was thinking about something else?"

"What were you thinking about?"

"Friday. Just . . . thinking about how I can convince Ferro that I'm not available and not in a relationship."

"If she gives you a question that can be answered with one or two words, keep it to one or two words. She doesn't need an entire book."

"I won't give her an entire book." I kissed Vasquez's forehead. "I save that for you."

"Lucky me."

"You are lucky."

"I'm really not, and I'm not having that conversation with you, sweetheart."

"I know, I know. You fucked up in life, just like me, and here we are, together. I meant that you're lucky to have me in your life, and I'm lucky to have you."

"Don't get too sappy, Drake. You know how I feel about sappy."

"You hate it so much, you love it."

"No, I just hate it."

"Then why do you like it when I put a little of my body wash in my clothes when you do the laundry? Why do you like it when I hug you really tight-like this-and rub the back of your head? Why do you like ever-so-subtly touching my fingertips when we're in the gym?"

"I shouldn't have to answer that." Vasquez smirked. "Why do you like it when I steal chocolate kisses from the lounge and put them on your smartgun? Why do you like it when I sneak into your bathroom and get your stuff all laid out for your shower?"

I snorted. "You haven't done that in awhile."

"I can start doing it again. If you do the same for me."

"Deal."

We were about to settle down to sleep when someone began knocking on the wall. "Psst! Hey, Vasquez, I got a pair of your socks in my laundry pile, man," Hudson whispered. "Want me to bring it over?"

"Why didn't you bring it over earlier, moron?" Vasquez replied.

"I just looked in my pile now."

"No. Hold on to it till morning."

"OK." Hudson knocked on the wall again. "How's it going, Drake?"

"Go the fuck to bed," I hissed. I then looked at Vasquez. "How'd he know I was in here?"

"I dunno. Maybe he heard us getting busy while he was in the shower."

"I didn't hear the shower, though."

"Your mind was off in la-la land, so what do you know?"

* * *

My dream last night went like this: I awoke on a cot that was very low to the ground, in a room that was really bright on one end, but dim where I was. There were no windows.

I got off the cot, and saw, of course, nightmare Hicks crouched nearby. His mouth was covered in blood, and he was panting. I looked over to see the body of what I assumed to be a doctor near a desk. It wasn't someone I knew, and his throat was completely torn out. Blood pooling beneath him had soaked his stark-white coat.

Hicks was watching me the whole time, blood and drool running from his mouth. He didn't make any move to attack me, so I turned to face him. "Why're you doing shit like this?" I asked.

I got no answer. I shouldn't expect an answer. Hicks continued to stared at me, and then approached me. I backed away, but he kept coming. He didn't quicken his pace when he saw my nervousness. He waited until I was backed against the wall, and then nudged my hand with his head. A universal sign from animals that it's safe to touch them. In my dream state, I accepted it, and patted his head, lightly caressing his hair, which was greasy from days without washing.

I had fallen for a trap. Hicks dug his claws in my side and tore open my belly. I collapsed to my knees, watching in shock as blood and what I assumed to be part of my intestines spilled from me. That hideous grin spread across Hicks's face. More saliva appeared at his lips, and he began slowly approaching me again.

Jolting up in bed, I threw off the covers to check myself, and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw I was intact. Vasquez lifted her head, and groaned before grabbing the blanket. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Nightmare, honey," I mumbled, rubbing my face. "I'm sorry."

She pulled me down, covering me with the blanket. "Shut up and go to sleep. It's two in the morning."

Four hours of sleep isn't enough for me. I tossed and turned for the remainder of the night, giving up around four. Vasquez was fast asleep, so I opened my nightstand to get my journal and write out the events of yesterday. I didn't think I was up for that long, but I eventually heard Apone going around and knocking on everyone's doors.

My lack of sleep was apparent throughout the day, but at least I got to spend the majority of that day with Ranelli. In fact, I told him about my dreams and how I couldn't sleep afterward; it wasn't because I was scared. I just couldn't get back to sleep.

"Insomnia is a fairly common symptom of mood disorders, as are frequent nightmares," Ranelli started. "However, you dreams involving Hicks are, as you've said, more than a bad dream. They are manifestations of your fears. I think you may be right when you said you believe this . . . version of Hicks is a physical representation of your post-traumatic stress, while also being your worst fear as to what could happen to Hicks as long as he's ill. The problem with dream theories is that they tend to focus on one object or scenario in a dream, and when you attempt to combine the meanings of different things you see, they come out to be nonsensical, and they don't take into account the context of the dream. Post-traumatic nightmares tend to be literal; they replay the event in your head at night. You seem to find yourself in different places, seeing different things before you relive the feeling of choking to death. I believe it's due to fear; the fear of being in an unfamiliar place, with no chance of help, when you start suffering a flashback. Not to mention, you've traveled, so it's not unlikely that things you've seen will pop up in your dreams."

"I think I knew that, but thanks for confirming it," I said. "How do I . . . get more sleep?"

"I imagine you've tried doing something that relaxes you?"

"Yes."

Ranelli thought for a moment. "Two things you can try. One is taking a mild sleep medication. The other is stopping by my office for tea."

"I can't do that to you every single day. I'll do the medication."

"Pity. I enjoy your company."

"Thanks, but you should be able to go home every night. That's a luxury I don't have, and probably never will."

"Don't think like that, Drake. You'll find a place to call home before you know it. Besides, I live on base with you, and if the unit is transferred before your treatment is finished, I go with you."

"I'm sorry, then. Believe me, you'll get tired of this place pretty quickly."

"My job is to help those who are tired of this place. Try again."

* * *

Friday came around rather quickly. I still wasn't sure about how I was going to conduct myself with Ferro, but I did know that people were going to ask questions when we got back from our . . . outing (I refuse to say date).

I'm not going to spend that much time describing what happened, mainly because nothing interesting happened and I told her a very, very basic summary of everything I've written in my journals, without divulging too much. I'll be honest, it wasn't a bad time; it was actually kinda fun, and it gave me a chance to give someone a fresh image of myself.

Ferro was open with me about her life. She told me flying had always been her thing and entered the Marines right out of high school. Becoming certified to fly in both air and space was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she had been in this unit for almost her entire career.

She told me this: "Believe it or not, I actually knew about Hicks's little problem. It was pretty obvious when he arrived that something was up. Apone told everyone the same thing: 'Just leave him alone for a few days.' Not hard to do. But, it didn't take long for him to warm up to everyone and establish himself as a leader. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure he was forcing it to think about something else."

"Yeah, that sounds like something he'd do," I said. "It's over now. We've made up and we're working to try and make our lives better."

"Well, that's good." Ferro looked out the window for a moment, then looked back at me. "What do you do in your downtime?"

"Sleep. Go to the gym when it's empty. Sit on the toilet for as long as I want."

"Yeah, we all do that. I mean, what do you for your mind and spirit and shit like that? We all got something we do to keep our brains from exploding."

"Mine's already exploded." I grinned, and tried to come up with something more serious. "I write. I keep a journal and write down everything that goes on during the day, and in my head. I also . . . I also cry. A lot. Mainly because I spend too much time in my head. I think a lot about what's going on and whether or not things'll get better for me. I worry about how I look to everyone. I worry about whether or not I'm treating everyone right. I worry about whether or not . . . I'm gonna go out into the world and find a place to call home. I worry and I don't take action-I _can't_ take action-so I cry. I bottle up my emotions, and when no one has the balls to talk to me about what's bothering me, I take out my frustration on them. I've been doing that even before I developed PTSD."

"Hey, nothing wrong with being emotional, Drake. Just gotta know when the right time is to be emotional. On the battlefield ain't one of them."

"Hudson said the same thing."

"Hudson has his moments where a brain cell manages to charge up." Ferro smirked. "He's a good guy, though. Not sure where we'd be without him."

"You wouldn't want a relationship with him?"

"Not a romantic one. He's done some shit that make you think twice."

I frowned. "Like what?"

"About a year before you and Vasquez came, we were stationed in . . . no, we were on a colony. LV-510. You know, the place that's been up for decades and decades and they're a small city now? That colony. Yeah, so we were stationed there, and Hudson and a few of the guys went to a shady-looking diner. Me and Dietrich went along to talk and have a drink or two. An hour later, we see Hudson getting a lap dance. He was wasted. Completely wasted. Dietrich looks at me and says, 'I just won a lot of money,' and I replied, 'What for?' 'I made a bet with Wierzbowski that Hudson was gonna do something stupid.'"

I sighed. "Hudson told me he's done things he regrets, but he never went into details."

"I don't think he wants to. Still wanna be friends with him?"

"He's changed," I said. "He hasn't done anything of that sort since I've been here."

"Not that you know of. You're right, though. He has settled down over the last few years."

"I saved his life, and he's saved mine. I'm not gonna stop being friends with him just because of shit he did in the past. All that matters is how he's treated me."

"Not a bad attitude to have."

"Thanks. First time anyone's ever told me I have a good attitude."

* * *

Am I glad Ferro thinks I'm an OK guy? Yes. Am I glad that this could pave the way for me to be on better terms with everyone else? Yes. Am I going to share my deeper, darker thoughts with her? Absolutely not. It might be awhile before I do that.

I can sum up these last few days with one word: chaotic. My life changed, again, and actually for the better. I will admit that I'm glad I'm getting help. It's something I've needed for a long time, and for more reasons than just the fact that I'm suffering from PTSD. Starting therapy had a domino effect; I ended up learning more about Hicks's past. I ended up opening up a little to the others, and I tried to better my relationship with Hudson. I learned that it doesn't take that much for people to want to help you, but it's still just as easy to damage that bond.

I've traveled a lot of roads alone-that's what I'm used to-but there's a tiny part of me that wants somebody along for the ride.

* * *

 _Question: Is it better Drake gets treated alone? Or should someone (Hudson, Vasquez, or Hicks) be with him for added support?  
_

 _A_ _uthor's Note: I feel like this story is a bit of a mess. We hit major points for Drake, but they could've gone better. Part of it has to deal with the fact that I wasn't expecting to come home so soon. I found myself getting distracted throughout the process of writing this, and that's why many chapters were late and not sticking to the same schedule as before.  
_

 _There is some good news, though; I'm going to be ghostwriting a children's novel based on a video game. I'm not giving up on the Drake series, but chapters might be published every two days instead of every other day. I love working on this, and don't want to quit, not if people are still enjoying it.  
_

 _I'm still pondering the idea of doing short stories from the point of view of other characters, considering the one with Vasquez was fun to work on. How about Hudson? Or how about going into Hicks's past and writing about his issues?  
_

 _Keep an eye out for the Christmas special. Happy reading - Cat._


End file.
